


Secret Agent Men

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Robbie is made a Double O agent, it sets off a series of events that will leave no one he knows unchanged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soundofthesurf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soundofthesurf/gifts).



> Inspired by Take That's [theme song for Kingsman: Secret Service](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4f59ZtVeTr0) and a series of discussions on Tumblr, though I've thrown the boys into a Bondian version of MI6 rather than the Kingsmen. Takes place in present-day England, though I've aged Mark and Rob down quite a bit. Thanks to m. butterfly and [halotolerant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant) for betaing this beast.

I watched them grow up, the two Manchester boys. They were all working-class accents and undeniable charm, recruited into MI6 on Barlow's initiative.

"We need more than posh public schoolboys," I heard Barlow tell the former M. "We need men, and women, who aren't afraid of getting their hands dirty."

Barlow knew what he was talking about. Both of us had been hired the last time there'd been a push in 6 to look beyond the upper classes for recruits. Barlow fought his battle and got his wish, and six months later, there they were in the lab where I worked under the old Q: Owen and Williams. Just out of their teens without a GCSE between them, but sharp and determined for all that.

"Are you Orange?" Williams asked me. "They've told us Orange would give us our gear, but I thought they were having us on. No one's actually called Orange, are they?" He was always the mouthy one, the one with no fear. 

The little one, Owen, smacked his friend on the arm and gave me a winning smile. The sort of smile that made you want to forgive any slight. The sort of smile that must have had our scouts falling over themselves to recruit him.

"Don't be awful, Rob," he said. Then, "Sorry about my friend. He doesn't half talk rubbish."

"I don't talk rubbish," William said.

"You do." Less than thirty seconds, and I knew the kind of double act they were, and how close they were destined to be.

"I _am_ called Orange," I said with a wink, and then shook both their hands. "They told me there were two other Manchester boys on the way."

"I'm from Stoke, not Manchester," Williams quickly corrected me. "And he's from Oldham." He elbowed his friend in the ribs. "Where are you from, then? Specifically?" he asked with a guileless curiosity that I was sure wouldn't last through his first six months of training.

"Wythenshawe." 

"Wythenshawe!" Williams seemed a bit impressed with that. "You must be harder than you look."

"Rob!" Owen stared at his friend in appalled horror.

"I'm not that hard," I said, laughing. "That's why I’m stuck in a lab, not out in the field."

"We're going to be field agents. Ain't we, Markie?"

They both looked so pleased with themselves, so proud, and so bloody innocent, that I felt a momentary urge to shout at them to get out and never come back. Coming in to this place, everyone thought being a field agent was going to be fun, like being in a bloody film. But it wasn't. In the few years I'd been here, I'd seen new agents quickly become hard and jaded, and experienced agents burn out until they weren't any use to 6, themselves, or anyone else. And those were just the ones who survived.

Not that these boys would have believed me. I wouldn't have either when I'd been as young as they were. So, I bit back on the impulse, gave them their gear—standard-issue weapons, a watch with a built-in tracker, a white noise generator, and a collection of bugs—and sent them on their way, half hoping they'd wash out of the program.

But they didn't wash out. They thrived. And the pair of them seemed to find their way back to the labs on a regular basis, and they always ended up at my workbench. Usually together. And frequently in trouble.

"He didn't mean to break it," Owen told me after they arrived with a particularly dead surveillance device that Williams had managed to utterly destroy on one of their first assignments. "Can you fix it? If we give it back to Penrose in this shape he'll have Rob's bollocks."

"Well, we wouldn't want Penrose to have Rob's bollocks, would we?" I said as I poked sceptically at the piece of equipment. "I may have some spare parts for it."

"That's brilliant!" Owen said, and gave me a hug that I suffered manfully through.

"Thanks, mate." Williams' thanks came without a hug, but were no less sincere.

But they didn't always come for help. Sometimes they were there to celebrate. Like when my guv retired and I was promoted to the Quartermaster position.

"Do we have to call you Q now?" Williams complained.

"You used to think Orange was ridiculous," I reminded Williams.

"Q is ridiculous. Orange is just…peculiar."

"Stop being a prat, Rob," Mark told him with a nudge. "Congratulations, Q. I'm sure you'll do brilliantly."

"Yeah, congratulations," Rob dutifully said. This time both of them gave me entirely un-MI6-like hugs.

Williams started showing up alone more and more often as he and Owen ended up more and more on different assignments. Sometimes, when Owen was on assignment by himself Williams came for company, and sometimes he came looking for advice.

"So, are there any queer agents in 6?" Williams asked me with a nonchalance so studied it was bleeding hilarious.

"You mean, besides you?" I said, trying desperately not to laugh at the look of shock on Williams' face. 

"I'm not…" Williams spluttered. I didn't let him go on.

"Does this mean you're finally going to ask Owen out?"

"I'm not…" Williams tried again, and then stopped. He dropped the outrage and gave me a look of honest curiosity. Or at least as honest as a junior spy could manage. "Do you think he'd say yes?"

And sometimes he came to give advice.

"What do you think of Sergeant Donad?" Williams said after loitering around my workbench with ill intent one afternoon. Sergeant Howard Donald was a transfer from the SAS who'd been drafted to do weapons training at 6.

"I think he's a very good soldier."

"That wasn't what I meant." Williams leaned in closer and dropped his voice. "I meant, what do you _think_ of him?"

I looked at him like he'd grown two heads.

"Look," he said bluntly. "Do you fucking fancy him or not? Because I've seen the way you two look at each other and I think you should ask him out. And so does Mark."

"What makes you think I'm gay?" I tried to front it out. 

Williams didn't even bother to answer that, just raised his eyebrows at me.

"Okay, but what makes you think that he's even my type? Or that I'm his?"

That got me the eyebrows again.

"Fine," I said, determined to ask the handsome Sergeant Donald out to prove Williams wrong. Except it turned out he'd been very, very right.

And sometimes Williams was just there to whinge.

"He called me untrustworthy, undisciplined, and insubordinate," Rob said, after he admitted to stealing a look at the report Barlow had written recommending Rob not be promoted to the Double O division.

"Perhaps if you hadn't called Mr Barlow an arrogant prick to his face…" I said mildly.

"But he _is_ an arrogant prick!"

I fought valiantly to avoid laughing at that. I got on well with Barlow, but I wasn't blind to his faults. And he did have a manner that could come across as arrogant. It wasn't arrogance, though. It was the focused ambition of a boy with parents who could just barely be considered middle class and had scrimped and saved to send him and his brother to the poshest public school they could afford. Though it hadn't been quite posh enough to wipe the north out of his accent.

"Could you talk to him?" Williams wheedled. "Ask him to recommend me for the Double Os?"

"You don't really want to be a Double O,"I tried. It looked a glamorous position, but I knew there was a cost to joining that squad. But Williams wouldn't be convinced, and I finally relented.

"I'll tell you what. I'll talk to Barlow if you promise to bring back the next piece of equipment I give you in one piece and working order."

"Easy peasy," Williams declared, and he actually managed it. And since he kept his promise, I kept mine. I put in a good word for Williams with Barlow, and before I quite knew what had happened, Williams was sent on his first Double O assignment and then formally promoted into the squad. 

Williams came to me with the good news before anyone else but Owen. I grabbed Howard from the horribly boring briefing he was giving, and the four of us had gone to dinner at the grandest restaurant I could afford. We drank champagne and ate caviar and celebrated Williams becoming 009. And by the end of the night Williams and Owen were Rob and Mark.

It should have been a happy ending. Should have, but wasn't. 

Double Os didn't tend to have happy endings. The Double Os did the jobs no one else was trained for, and no one else wanted. They worked the blackest of the black ops assignments. As soon as Rob became a Double O, he began to change. He stopped being exasperating. He stopped winding me up, stopped telling bad jokes, stopped jumping off roofs and balconies just to see if he could. In short, he stopped being an aggravating cheeky bastard.

Rob would be gone for weeks at a time on assignment, then arrive in the lab dishevelled and exhausted, his eyes red and his breath smelling not so subtly of alcohol. I usually just brought him a coffee and let him talk bollocks while I worked on a new project. He never talked about what he'd done, and I never asked him. Except once.

Rob appeared in the lab in a suit that was pure Savile Row, but looked like it had been slept in several nights running. His pupils were blown so wide that his irises were reduced to thin rings of green, and his fingers beat a nervous tattoo on his thigh. He smelled of alcohol, ashes and fear.

"Are you all right, Rob?" I asked, knowing full well that he absolutely wasn't.

"Yeah," he said in a tone that would have convinced absolutely no one.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Rob stared at me for long minute, and I saw many things in his eyes: desperation, fear, even a modicum of quickly extinguished hope. But then he blinked and swallowed.

"No," he said. "I'm all right, really."

Then he finished his mug of coffee, said a quiet goodbye, and left. And I went straight to M.

Barlow had been M slightly longer than I'd been Q, and he'd settled into the role so well that you'd have thought he'd been born wearing a three-piece suit. But I remembered when young Gary Barlow had been a fellow recruit, as nervous and uncertain as I'd been, and I got straight to the point.

"You have to pull Williams from the field. You have to get him out of the Double Os."

"As I remember it," M said from behind his intimidating desk, his fingers steepled in front of him, "you were the one who wanted me to promote him into the Double Os in the first place."

"Because he wanted it so badly, and because I thought he might be one of the ones who could take it. But I was wrong."

"No. You were right," M said. "He's one of our best. He has a one hundred per cent success rate."

"You keep him in the field and he's going to have a one hundred per cent failure rate and you're going to have a dead agent."

"I know what I'm doing." M was so certain. And I didn't know how to convince him otherwise.

"He's my friend."

"We can't afford friends in our business."

I looked into M's eyes and saw the absolute certainty that he believed he was doing the right thing. I walked out of the office without saying another word.

After that, I avoided M for weeks, and Rob began to avoid me. If he needed gear for a mission, he sent another Double O to pick it up, or managed to visit the labs during one of my all-too-rare breaks. 

If I saw Rob less, I saw Mark a lot more, and his presence was almost harder to take than Rob's absence. He'd gone from the bubbly, cheerful lad who'd first shown up in my lab to a serious young man who never seemed to smile anymore. But he never talked about how he was feeling, and I never asked. 

Then one night when I was working late alone in the labs, Mark showed up in the lab, his face blotchy, his eyes rimmed red. I took him firmly by the arm and steered him into the lab's soundproof booth, then sat him down.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothin'." Mark looked down at his shoes and let his fingers worry at a bare patch on the jeans he was wearing. (No Savile Row for Mark. 6 tended to use him for jobs like infiltrating student organizations and drug dealers, and he was very good at dressing the part.)

I caught Mark's hand and held it still.

"Look at me." Slowly, Mark looked up until he made tentative eye contact. "Tell me what's wrong." I squeezed Mark's hand. "You know I won't tell anyone what you say. Not M, not Rob, no one."

"Not even Howard?" Mark asked, his voice rough and raspy.

"Not unless you give me permission. Now what's wrong, Mark?"

"It's Rob." Mark swallowed hard. "We've not been getting on the last little while. And tonight…" He stopped, and I could see tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

I pulled Mark into a firm hug, and whispered in his ear, "You can tell me anything."

Mark took a few gasping breaths, then I felt him relax in my arms. He didn't pull away before he started talking.

"Rob broke up with me." I felt a shudder pass through his body. "He said we're no good together and I'm only holding him back and he doesn't want to see me anymore. He was lyin'. I know he was. But it doesn't make it hurt less."

"Oh, Mark." I held him tighter, but after another few sobs, I felt him stiffen, then pull away.

"It's all right," Mark said as he wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. "I'll be all right."

But he hadn't been. Not after that.

I saw Rob just one more time, a few days before everything went to shit. I was working in the lab all night, trying to fix the fuse on a miniature explosive device, and he wandered in. He looked horrible, with dead eyes and pasty skin, like he'd been living on a mixture of adrenaline, alcohol, and amphetamines for weeks.

"Can I ask you a favour?" Rob said with absolutely no preamble.

"What sort of favour?" Gone were the days when I would have agreed to anything he asked of me.

"Look after Mark."

"I thought you'd broken up with him," I said, my tone a bit harsher than I intended.

"Doesn't mean I don't care about him."

"That's funny. I thought that was exactly what it _did_ mean."

"Look, you don't understand." Rob was jittery and impatient.

"Then why don't you explain it to me?" 

"I…I can't, okay? Just promise me you'll look out for him. Please," Rob pleaded. I'd never heard him plead before. Not for anything.

I put down the screwdriver I'd been holding and turned my full attention on Rob. I could see his hands shaking, could see the shadows under his eyes and the days of stubble on his cheeks.

"What have you done, Rob?" I whispered.

"Never mind me," he said. "Promise you'll look after Markie." He stared at me with such intensity, that I could only nod in response.

"Good." He nodded, then he was out of the lab before I could say another word.

Afterward, I wondered if there had been anything I could have done that night to stop all the misery that was barrelling towards Rob and Mark and all of us, anything I could have done to prevent the pain that was soon going to envelop us all.

* * *

Rob took another pull of vodka, concentrating on the burn down his throat as he read the decrypted message for the thousandth time.

_Jesus Fucking Christ_.

He crumpled the piece of paper into a tight ball and threw it at the bin, nearly screaming in frustration as it missed.

_Fuck, Williams, you can't even throw away a piece of rubbish._

He walked across the room and carefully picked up the ball, and lobbed it into the bin. Then he just as carefully pulled on his holster and put on a suit coat and made sure his weapon was secure in its place under his arm.

He couldn't bollocks this up. He just couldn't.

It took half bottle of vodka and a couple of lines of cocaine to build up the courage to leave the flat, and the rest of the bottle to find the nerve to enter SIS headquarters. It was the middle of the night, but that wasn't unusual. Building security was used to seeing Double O agents in and out at all hours. He nodded to James and Paul as he strode though the security gate and made his way to M's office, hoping his new boss wasn't working late this night.

He used his phone to trip the video loop of M's office he'd planted in the surveillance system days before, then keyed open the door with a spare key card he'd nicked from Moneypenny this afternoon.

The office was empty and dark, and Rob breathed a sigh of relief that he didn't have to deal with M. He couldn't stand the new M, hadn't liked him even when he was just Mr Gary Fucking Barlow, but that didn't mean he wanted to put a bullet in him. He eased the door gently shut and then went over to the safe. 

The safe was more challenging to crack than the surveillance system had been, but he managed it. MI6 had trained him to breach security systems, after all.

The safe's door swung open, and Rob took in all of M's secrets spread out before him. Paper files and hard drives, codebooks and lists of assets. He ignored all of them but the thing he'd been sent to claim: an innocuous flash drive, barely bigger than his thumbnail. He picked it up and held it carefully between two fingers, struck by how such a small thing could mean so much. He clenched his fist around it and forced himself not to think about what he was doing, wishing he hadn't quite finished off all of the vodka.

He was just about to close the safe door, hiding all traces of his presence, when he heard the whisper of a sound. He turned to find Mark pushing the door open.

"Working late, M?" Mark asked, his eyes blinking as he adjusted to the darkness. "I thought I was the only one here tonight." 

Rob saw the exact moment that Mark realized his mistake, with his eyes going wide and his gasp so sharp Rob heard it across the room.

Rob started doing a rapid calculation of all his tactical possibilities. Could he convince Mark that Barlow had asked him to retrieve something from the safe? (Unlikely.) Could he convince Mark to look the other way? (Completely unlikely.) Could he convince Mark to betray his country? (Completely fucking impossible, however much Mark had used to care for him.) But it all came down to one fact: if he didn't steal the flash drive, those bastards would do what they said they would. And he couldn't live with himself if that happened.

He would do what was necessary, however much it hurt.

He clenched his jaw, forced his shoulders to relax, and reached for his weapon.

"Oh, Rob, no," Mark breathed out, and then he was running out the door.

He knew what was going to happen—Mark was going to call for help—and he knew he had to stop him. And even though it was Mark—fucking _Markie_ \--his training took over. 

He pulled the trigger before Mark reached the door, the silenced weapon making little more than a pop. Mark fell to the ground with a choked cry, and Rob was out of the room before he had to look at his colleague, his friend, the man he fucking _loved_ , lying on the floor.

Mark.

Fuck.

_Don't think, don't think, don't think_ he told himself over and over. He needed a drink. Or a line. Or some E. Or any-fucking-thing that could stop him from thinking about what he'd just done.

_You were meant to save him, not shoot him_ , he told himself as he moved through the building, careful not to move too quickly or too slowly, listening every moment for a blaring alarm that never came.

He nodded at James as he left the building, struggling not to scream at the security man to call an ambulance, struggling not to break into a run as he hit the street. He caught a black cab on the other side of the Thames. He took a series of cabs, abandoning one to take the next one that went past, or the third one when his operational paranoia took over. It was only as the sun was coming up and he was certain he'd managed to avoid all surveillance that he finally made his way to the safe house that was waiting for him.

He entered the safe house, a posher place than MI6's budget had ever provided, all dark wood panelling and Persian carpets, to be patted down by two hulking bodyguards who relieved him of his weapon. He didn't care. All he could see, over and over again, was Mark falling in front of him.

One of the bodyguards escorted him to the inner sanctum of the house, a library with leather chairs and rich velvet curtains. The man who'd been his downfall waited there, sitting behind a dark mahogany desk, his fingers laced together in front of him, and a questioning look on his face.

"There you fucking go," Rob said, and threw the flash drive on the desk. "I hope it's worth it. It cost me enough."

The man took the flash drive without a word and plugged it into the laptop sitting in front of him. He looked at whatever was on the drive without so much as a raised eyebrow, then took the drive out of its slot, deposited it in a drawer, closed the laptop's cover, and turned his full attention on Rob. 

Rob suddenly found there were worse things than being ignored.

"You've kept your side of the bargain, Mr Williams. We will keep ours. Your friend will not be targeted by our agents. At least, not so long as you continue to work for us."

"That wasn't the deal," Rob said, feeling his face flush and the floor begin to drop out from under him. 

"Originally, we'd planned on keeping you as a mole," the man said, his voice managing to be both impassive and menacing at the same time. "But you've made that impossible, haven't you?"

"I don't know…" Rob started to say, but the man cut him off with a wave.

"Our operatives detected increased activity in SIS headquarters this evening, including a lockdown and the arrival of an ambulance. The ambulance removed Agent Mark Owen to Guy's."

"Is he alive?" Rob asked, completely unable to keep the tension he felt out of his voice.

"Your concern is touching, considering it was you who shot him." 

"Is he alive?" Rob was practically shouting now.

The man's mouth twitched with what could have been a suppressed smile.

"He's alive. And being guarded around the clock, in case you were foolishly planning on visiting him." The man folded his hand calmly in front of him and fixed Rob with a chilly stare. "Now, let me lay out the conditions of your employment with us. You will answer every question we have about MI6's operational capabilities. And once we have every piece of information contained in your handsome skull, you will go on every mission we assign you and perform them to the best of your considerable ability. In return, we will pay you generously. If you refuse to do anything we ask, we will kill Agent Owen, and then we will kill you." Having delivered his speech, the man gave Rob the first smile he'd ever seen from him. It wasn't comforting. "Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

"Do you agree?"

"Yeah." It wasn't like he had a choice. He hadn't had a choice for months. Or had it been a year, already? When had he joined the Double Os? That had been the beginning of it.

It had sounded so brilliant, being a member of such an elite team. He should have stopped a minute and looked at who was actually in that crew. You couldn’t find a worse group of psychopaths, burnouts, and stone cold killers anywhere in the country. And he’d willingly signed up to become one of them.

Not that he’d been completely innocent before. He’d had to kill on assignments twice before he'd joined the Double Os. But it had never been calculated, always in the heat of the moment when things had gone pear-shaped. On a Double O assignment, death was a pre-meditated part of the package. The first time he’d had to do it, kill someone in cold blood, it had taken a full bottle of vodka for him to get over it. By the third time it happened, there hadn’t been enough vodka in Russia to help him forget and he’d moved on to illegal substances. Spliffs. Acid. E. Finally he’d discovered cocaine, and a way to make all right with the world, however temporarily.

But if you bought the amount of cocaine he was suddenly using, you came to the notice of the worst sort of dealer. Rob had stumbled into a right bastard, an oily Manchester bloke who claimed he was managing a band or two, but seemed to make all his money from the drugs he dealt. His dealer had been a little fish, but clever enough to twig who it was Rob worked for, and connected enough that he'd sold Rob on to a bigger fish. A much bigger fish. The sort of fish who blackmailed MI6 agents.

He'd been surrendering minor secrets since the summer, just enough to keep the cocaine coming and keep his dirty secrets from being revealed. Tonight's theft was meant to be the end of it, one last betrayal before he went back to being merely an ordinary alcoholic, drug-addicted, fucked-up Double O agent. And this time it hadn't been to keep his sorry arse out of prison, but to keep Mark alive. 

They'd started asking him for bigger secrets a month ago. The sort of secrets that got agents killed, that destabilized governments. He'd refused up until a week ago, which was when they'd discovered his one week spot: Mark.

When they'd threatened Mark's life if he didn't steal that fucking flash drive for them, he'd nearly thrown up. Because he knew how important that flash drive was, what its theft could mean to MI6 and Britain and all of the fucking EU. But he also knew he'd do anything to save Mark. And they'd known it, too, the bastards who owned him.

He was thankful he’d asked Q to look after Mark, thankful that Mark had someone looking out for him who was more trustworthy than the idiot who'd thought the way to save him was to put a bullet in his leg. He prayed that Q and that SAS sergeant of his would do a better job taking care of Mark than he'd ever done. If Mark survived, that is.

He brought his attention back to the present, back to this wood-panelled room, reeking of expensive cigars and money and corruption, back to the evil bastard sitting across from him, with his plummy accent and his entitled attitude and his fucking smile.

"I'm glad we understand each other," the evil bastard said, and how Rob wanted to pummel that smile off his face. "Shall we begin?"

* * *

M wasn't yet asleep, was in fact still going over the past day's debriefs and surveying the files for the day to come. He was so intent on a report on Russia's current activities in the Baltic that he wasn't anticipating trouble at all when the phone rang.

"Hello," he said as he was making notes to send an operative to Riga.

"Hello, sir. It's James. I'm on security duty-"

"I know who you are." M made it his business to know everyone in MI6. James XXX may not have been an agent, may have been part of building security, but M knew how much he could be trusted. And he knew that James would never call unless something very serious had happened. "What's wrong?"

"There's been a breach, sir," James said, getting right to the point. "Of your office. There was a break in and your safe was cracked."

"Christ," M said under his breath. "Do you know what was taken?" Mentally, he began making a list of what he'd had in the safe, and how much damage could be done with all of it.

"We'll need you to come in and confirm the contents. Your driver has been dispatched and should be there soon. We've got the building on lock down."

"Good," M said, proud, as always, at how his people performed in a crisis. "I'll be in as soon as I can." He started to hang up, already calculating how someone could have breached building security (probability that this was an inside job: high) and how quickly he could begin cleaning house.

"That's not all, sir," James said hurriedly, and M finally noticed a shakiness to his voice that wasn't at all like his security officer.

"There was-" James paused, and M could hear him swallow before he continued and prepared himself for bad news. "There was an agent shot. In your office."

"Who?"

"Agent Owen, sir."

M felt a cold wave surge down his spine. He didn't have favourites, made a point of it, but Owen was one of _his_ boys, one of the ones he'd made a point of recruiting. And quite apart from feeling responsible for him, Owen was a nice lad. M occasionally felt guilty for turning the boy into a spy.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, sir. I found him myself. Kept pressure on his wound until the ambulance arrived. He'd lost a lot of blood, but the Paramedics thought he had a good chance at surviving."

"Good man." 

"That's not all, sir. Before he lost consciousness, Owen told me it was 009 that shot him."

"Shit," M said, not worrying about censoring himself in front of a staff member. Because this was bad. Williams was one of the men he'd trusted most in the Double Os, one of the agents who could do the most harm with what he knew. Because in spite of how Williams had been acting lately, in spite even of Q's warning, he'd still thought 009 would manage to straighten out. At worst, he'd feared 009 might die on a mission. But he'd never thought the boy would go over to the other side. He'd never thought Williams would shoot a fellow agent, let alone Owen.

They'd been recruited together, Williams and Owen, and they'd meant a lot to each other. Even as they'd grown apart, it was still obvious to M that Williams still cared for Owen. But if he'd shot Owen…well, then he was a bad 'un. The worst. Beyond redemption. And he needed to be hunted down.

"Send a security detail to the hospital to guard Owen," he told James. 

"I'll go myself, sir."

"I'll be in as soon as I can. Call in all agents. I want everyone working on this."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll call Q myself." Q deserved to hear this news from him. And he was going to need Q's help to begin to straighten out this mess.

He hung up the phone and dialled Q's number.

* * *

Howard woke up to the ringing of a phone that wasn't his, his heart pounding in his chest.

He used to get those sorts of phone calls, the ones that came in the dead of night and let you know about the latest horror show you were being sent off to face, but weapons instructors didn't get those phone calls, not even weapons instructors who worked for MI6.

He sat up blinking, and watched as Jason fumbled for his phone, looking entirely like a man who'd never gotten a phone call like this in his life.

"'Lo," Jason slurred, and Howard could see that he was still shaking off the fog of sleep. 

There was a pause, before Jay revealed who'd called.

"M?" Jason rubbed his palm across his face as Howard wondered why the hell M would have called Jay in the middle of the night. "Can't it wait until morning?"

Another pause and Jason frowned.

"You can't have suddenly realized you need me to design a new gun in the middle of the night. What's going on?"

Howard could see the impatience in Jason's face as he spoke again.

"You know it's secure. I designed the network myself. Now, what the hell is going on?"

Whatever M told him, it made Jason's eyes go wide, and his breath come in quick short gasps. Howard put his hand on Jason's arm and squeezed it with concern.

"What?" Howard mouthed, but Jason shook his head and turned his attention back to M.

"Where is he?" Jason said, then waved at the air impatiently. "No. Not Williams." He frowned again. "Where's Mark? Is he still alive?"

What the hell had happened to Rob? And what the fucking hell had happened to Mark that Jason was asking if he was still alive? Whatever remnants of sleep he'd been holding had completely fallen away from Howard, and he threw off the covers and began searching for his clothes.

"I'm going to Guy's." Jason's voice was firm, and it gave Howard hope. If Mark was at Guy's, then he must still be alive. He must be.

He was pulling on his khaki trousers and straightening out his burgundy jumper when Jason spoke next.

"Mark needs me more than you do." He slammed down the phone.

"Do you want me to drive?" Howard asked before pulling his jumper over his head.

"Would you mind? I don't know if I'm up to it." Jason looked down. Howard followed his gaze and was not at all surprised to see Jay's hand trembling.

"What's happened to Mark?" Howard said as he gently took Jason's hand in his own.

Jason paused for a moment, and Howard could see his jaw moving, as if he was trying to work out what he could possibly say. When he finally spoke, his words were absolutely the last thing Howard would have expected.

"Rob shot him."

"Fuckin' hell," Howard whispered as his hand convulsively tightened on Jason's. He was briefly taken back to all the times in the Regiment when they'd had bad news. A mate killed in a fire fight on foreign soil, or injured in a training exercise. This was why he'd left the SAS for MI6, because he'd stopped being able to deal with this kind of shit. But having a panic attack wasn't going to help Mark, and it wasn't going to help Jason, so Howard took a deep breath and brought himself back to the present.

"Rob came to me a few days ago," Jason was saying. "He asked me to look after Mark." He took a shaky breath. "I wonder if he knew what he was going to do."

Howard didn't say anything, because really, what the fuck was there to say? He just pulled Jay into a gruff hug and held him there for a good long minute until they'd both stopped trembling. But they couldn't stay this way forever.

"C'mon," he said as he reluctantly pulled away from Jason. "Let's get to Guy's. Markie needs us."

* * *

Mark stretched out in the summer sun, feeling the grass prickle his skin. (Wait, was it summer?) They were surrounded by picnicking families, teenagers playing football, and little kids with their arms outstretched spinning around and around until they fell to the ground, dizzy and giggling.

Mark turned his head, and saw Rob looking wistfully at the boys kicking a ball around.

"C'mon, Markie," Rob said, turning to him with a grin. "Let's join in. Bet we could 'ave that lot."

"No thanks, Rob." Mark wriggled as his leg cramped slightly. "I'm happy right here."

He rolled onto his side, one hand supporting his head so he could see Rob and the Heath and London spread out below them.

"Why don't we come here more often?"

"No time, I suppose," Rob said, his gaze still on the football game.

"But we have time now?" There was a niggle behind Mark's eyes, the kind he got when he was missing something, the kind Jason was always telling him to pay attention to.

Jason.

Why was he thinking about Jay instead of Rob and football and the lovely summer sunshine? (It's not summer. Think, you stupid bastard.)

"We must have time now, or we wouldn't be here, would we?" Rob said smugly, then pushed himself off the ground and stood. "I'm going to play."

"Rob." Mark sat up and grabbed at Rob's trouser leg. "Those kids don't want an old bloke like you mucking up their game."

"I'm not old." Rob leaned down and ruffled his hair. "And anyway, you're a year older than me. If I'm old, you're positively ancient."

"Am not!" Mark started to stand, meaning to defend his honour, but the cramp in his leg flared again and he ended up flat on his back. "Fuck."

"You okay, Markie?" Rob was at his side immediately, looking down at him with concern.

"It's nowt. Just a cramp." Mark clutched his leg, meaning to knead the cramp out, but his hand came away wet. What the fuck? He looked down, and saw his fingers were red.

"Markie." Rob's voice was a warning, and with that warning a pain flared in his leg that blotted out everything else. He clenched his eyes tightly shut, riding out the waves of pain that spread out from his leg to every cell in his body. When the pain finally began to ebb he opened his eyes, and found everything had changed. The sun, the Heath, the families, the kids, the footballers, all were gone. In their place was a darkened office--M's office—and standing over him, a gun in his hand, was Rob.

"You shouldn't have come here, Markie." Rob said, his hand steady and his expression calm. "I can't have a witness." Mark could see Rob's finger begin to tighten on the trigger.

"No, Rob!" Mark yelled, holding out one blood-covered hand in defence. 

There was an explosion of sound as Rob pulled the trigger…

…and then Mark was sitting up in a different darkened room. A hospital room. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as a tangle of IV lines and oxygen tubes ensnared him.

"It's okay, Mark," a voice was telling him. "You're going to be okay. But you've got to lie back. The doctor'll be pissed off if you pull out his stitches."

"Jay?"

"Yeah, it's me. Howard's here, too. And M."

He blinked rapidly as memory separated itself from dream.

"He shot me. Rob shot me, didn't he?"

"Yeah."

Mark sobbed, the shock of hearing someone else confirm the worst thing he could imagine too much for him. He collapsed back on the bed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, wishing he could fade back into the dream, the good part of the dream, the summer part of the dream. But he stayed resolutely awake, feeling his breathing coming more and more harshly in his chest, even as the tube in his nose fed him oxygen.

Around him he heard alarms beeping and blaring, and then more voices he didn't recognize. He opened his eyes in time to see a middle-aged woman in a white coat push a syringe of milky liquid into the IV line in his arm. 

"No," he tried to say, because he knew what was in that syringe, what had to be in it, and he didn't want to have his problems erased by drugs. That was what Rob had fallen back on, was what had ultimately driven them apart, and he wanted no part of it.

But they weren't giving him a choice and he could feel himself fading, could feel the world bleeding out around him.

As he was losing his grip on the world, he saw Jason approach him, felt Jay gently pat his arm.

"It'll be all right, Mark," Jay said as the alarms gradually quieted around him.

_No, it won't_ , Mark wanted to scream. _Nothing'll ever be all right again._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now recovering from his injuries, Mark finds a new role in MI6.

I'd watched them grow up, watched Rob and Mark become agents, become men. Now I had to watch as Rob was declared a traitor and Mark was left to recover from the bullet Rob had put into him.

For the first week after the shooting, the doctors kept Mark sedated. They had to. Whenever they let him come out of his narcotic haze, he would struggle and cry and scream for Rob, nearly undoing all the work they'd done fixing his leg until they had no choice but to knock him out again.

It broke my bleedin' heart. But it did something far worse to Howard.

The third time Mark came to, Howard grabbed my wrist with a grip so tight I knew he was going to leave bruises. It was only after the doctors and nurses had settled Mark that I managed to ease Howard's grip and then turned to look at him. He was clenching his jaw so hard it was a wonder he hadn't shattered his teeth, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

"How?" I whispered, then began to reach out to him.

"Don't." His voice was harsh in his throat. "Just… don't."

Before I could think of what to do, he turned and ran from the room. 

I found him in a linen cupboar down the hall, crouched in a corner, both fists clenched against his mouth. He didn't look up when I came through the door. I don't think he was seeing what was in front of him.

I knew better than to touch him this time. I settled on the floor on the other side of the closet to wait.

It took a long time for him to come back to me, for his shoulders to relax and his jaw to unclench, for his eyes to focus on what was truly here and not in his memory. Only when he was truly back did he reach a hand out to me. I was at his side in an instant, holding him until he stopped trembling and could finally relax in my arms.

"You okay?" It was a stupid question, but I couldn't think of a better one.

"No." Howard shook his head and buried his face in my shoulder. 

"Do you want to tell me anything?" I asked as I stroked his back.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Fuck, no."

"Do you need to get out of here?" Not that I wanted to leave Mark, but Howard was important, too.

"I can handle it." He shrugged. "It's just…I may need to leave, every now and then."

Fortunately for Howard's sake, Mark's mum and sister arrived from Manchester—sorry, Oldham—soon after, so I took Howard home to my flat, made him tea and soup, and waited for an explanation.

"Now you know why I left the Regiment," Howard finally said.

"Yeah. Though I don't know that joining MI6 was the cleverest thing you've ever done."

"Probably not," Howard agreed, but then he smiled, the first smile I'd seen from him since we'd got that bloody phone call. "Wouldn't have met you, if I'd been clever, though, would I?"

"No." I matched his smile with one of my own.

"And besides," the smile faded from his face, "it's not as if the army left me with a lot of useful skills for civilian jobs. Not a lot of call for infiltration of enemy emplacements in the private sector. At least teaching weapons earns me a crust."

"Fair enough," I said, wondering what I'd do if working for 6 got too much for me. Because it's not like there were a lot of jobs out there developing weapons and surveillance systems. At least not in the sorts of places I'd want to work. And that got me wondering what Mark was going to do, now that he'd been broken.

Except it turned out he wasn't broken. Not exactly.

We checked in on him regularly, Howard and I, and by the end of the week he wasn't being sedated anymore. 

"No more drugs," he told the doctors while we were there, his voice soft but firm, his expression unwavering. "Drugs change you. I won't have that." 

That was the moment Mark stopped being a kid to me, the moment he became a solemn adult, all too aware of the hurt life could inflict on him.

Another few weeks and he'd been transferred from the hospital to 6's rehab clinic in Chipping Norton. We didn't get out to see him there, but M let me know how he was doing.

"He's their best patient," M told me one day when he'd stopped by the lab. "He does all his exercises, follows all the instructions they give him. He'll be back in the field before you know it."

"Do you think that's wise?" I asked. "There was more damaged than just his leg."

"Work will do him good," M said, and slapped me on the back. I ground my teeth, resisting the urge to slap him back rather hard. Because how dare he take this so lightly?

"Like working in the Regiment did Sergeant Donald good?" I spat out. I couldn't help it. Ever since Howard had broken down at the hospital, I'd kept a close eye on him. And I'd been noticing all the small signs he showed of the damage that had been done to him: the trouble sleeping, the irritability, the times he seemed to get snarled up in a painful memory. And I'd started wondering how much damage was being inflicted on all of us, working the insane jobs we did. How much pain we could see, how much pain we could take before we were wounded beyond repair?

M dropped the jovial front he'd been putting up.

"Owen has been working with a therapist. I've seen to that." I could see something like guilt behind M's eyes. "He's doing fine." M put a cautious hand on my shoulder, and I struggled not to shake it off. "Sergeant Donald is doing fine, too. So he tells me."

"Then you knew what he'd been through."

"I knew." M nodded. "His C.O. recommended him when I went looking for a new weapons instructor. Told me there was no one better for the job. And he also told me that he'd been experiencing…troubles."

"That's one way of putting it." I was angry, and the worst thing was I wasn't sure who I was angry at. Howard's commanding officer and M for deciding How's fate between them? Or Howard himself for not letting me know what he'd been through. What he was still going through?

"I wish none of it had happened," M told me, his face serious. "I wish Owen hadn't been shot, that Williams hadn't betrayed us all, that Donald hadn't seen too much. But we're in a business that doesn't give me, doesn't give any of us, that luxury. We deal with the bad things so the rest of the country doesn't have to. Surely you see that."

I nodded. I had to. Because I knew what we did and I knew how necessary it was. But it didn't make it any easier, especially when it was my friends who were being hurt. And it made me resolve to look after the people I loved, Howard and Mark and everyone, as much as I could.

As part of looking after Mark, when he was ready to be discharged from rehab, I volunteered Howard and me to pick him up and take him back to his new flat. (M had seen that he was moved to a new location while he'd been recovering. After all, someone who was now an enemy agent knew where he lived.)

Mark was waiting at the front door of the clinic when we arrived, wearing dark trousers and a smart wool coat, his hair short and spiky, with a small duffle at his feet. For a few seconds I didn't recognize him. His already slender frame was down to nowt but bone and muscle, and his face was all severe lines and planes. There was a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and a trickle of smoke drifted above his head. He looked…hard.

I froze, not knowing what to say to this stranger who looked like my friend, but Howard knew what to do. He put a gentle hand on my back to nudge me into action, then moved forward to Mark.

"You ready to go?" he asked, his voice more normal than I could have managed.

"Yeah." Mark took a final drag of his cig and then flicked it to the ground. "I won't be sorry to see the last of this place." He bent to pick up his duffle, but I finally found the will to move and hurried to get it from him.

"I'll take that." I put his duffle in the boot, and then threw my keys to Howard. I didn't quite trust myself to drive at the moment. "Could you drive, How?"

Howard just managed to restrain his glee—I didn't usually let him drive my car; he was a bloody maniac behind the wheel and I hadn't splurged on a classic Merc for him to wrap it around a tree—and got us on the road.

Mark sat in the front and talked to Howard about the food at the clinic and what sadists the therapists were and anything but how his ex-boyfriend had put a bullet in him. I sat in the back and marvelled at how well he looked, and how different.

Mark had always had an essential sweetness to him, a lovability. Ask around MI6 and you'd hear from everyone what a lovely lad Mark Owen was. 

It was a quality that had served him well on missions. People always liked him, they trusted him, and they told him things that they shouldn't have, things that 6 was looking to find out.

That sweetness was gone. I didn't once see the crinkles around his eyes that always accompanied his usually open smile. Instead, he had a near permanent furrow in his forehead from the constant frown he now wore. And God help me, one of the first things I thought was that he wasn't going to be any use on the sort of missions he was used to doing.

I wasn't the only one who'd noticed the change, either.

Howard brought it up first. We'd finished installing Mark in his new flat, got us all takeaway from the nearest chippy, and made sure he had everything he needed before the two of us headed back to my flat.

"He's not the same Markie, is he?" Howard said as he leaned into my arms on the couch, his mouth turned down.

"No," I said, as unhappy at the change as Howard looked. "He's not."

"Fuck," Howard said, buried his face in the crook of my neck. He wouldn't talk about Mark after that, but his nightmares, always present now that I knew what to look for, got worse.

M mentioned it a week later, once Mark had started coming back into headquarters as he worked at getting rated operational again.

"Owen's gone and grown up too much," M said as he sat down at my lab bench. "I won't be able to use him in student organizations anymore. He's not wide-eyed enough."

"He's a human being," I said, keeping my eyes on the new sniper scope I'd been calibrating as I tried not to sound snappish. "He's not just another piece of equipment for you to use and throw away."

"I wasn't saying I was going to throw him away." M looked at me with shock, though he needn't have done. I've known him longer than anyone else in 6. I know he's a good man, but I also know how ruthless he can be. 

"Then what were you saying?"

"I'm going to have to find something else for him to do." He shrugged. "Not that I'm sure quite what that is yet."

I don't think any of us quite knew what Mark's new role was going to be. In the end, he ended up surprising us all.

* * *

Mark pushed open the door of the MI6 change room, hoping to find it empty. He'd had enough of seeing the way people looked at him, like they pitied him. And that only got worse when he was in workout clothes and they could see the long furrowed scar that ran down his right thigh, the scar where they'd dug Rob's bullet out of him. 

He even saw echoes of pity in the eyes of Jason and Howard, though things were more complicated with them. They were trying not to treat him any differently, he knew that. They'd invite him over for dinner, or bring takeaway over to his flat. They'd all eat curries, and drink lager and wine, and moan about M, and laugh about the latest ridiculous directive from the government. But then there'd be a lag in conversation and Mark would catch Jason looking at him with the same veiled dread he'd shown when he arrived to pick him up at rehab, or Howard turning away with an expression that looked like he was fighting his own demons. He'd got to the point where he'd turned down an invitation from Jason two times in a row. 

Not that he had so many friends he could afford to avoid any of them, but he didn't want pity; he didn't want sympathy. He wanted to be just another agent, getting fit again so he could go back to doing his job. 

He poked his head around the first locker and was relieved to find no one else in the first row of benches. He headed in and had just dropped his duffle on the bench nearest the locker in the corner he always favoured when he heard the first voice.

"Did you hear?" said a deep baritone from behind the next row of lockers. Halton was a tough old bastard, one of the few agents who'd survived being a Double O and stepped down to work in analysis. He was also one of the few people in the building who didn't give Mark the pitying looks he so dreaded and despised. He seemed to have taken Mark under his wing and had been sparring with him for a few weeks now. Mark hadn't managed to best him yet.

"I did. Is it true?" That was Pennell, one of the new intake of agents that was coming up. Nice enough, if a bit posh. Mark always felt a bit out of his depth around him, even if Pennell was younger and less experienced.

Mark started pulling out his gear, wondering what gossip was making the rounds now.

"They say it's true," said Halton. "They say another Double O saw him."

Mark tugged on his shorts, grimacing as his scar twinged.

"Has anyone told Owen?" Pennell said.

Mark stopped with his t-shirt over his head, feeling a cold rush down his spine as he realized who they must be talking about. He knew he should pop his head 'round the corner and let them know he was there, but he felt frozen in place.

"I don't think so."

"Well, I wouldn't want to be the one to tell him his ex-boyfriend had just been shot at by a Double O," said Pennell, and Mark could hear that fucking pity in his voice. 

Mark felt all the air leave his lungs as he doubled over and clutched his arms around himself.

 _Fucking hell._ He felt a wash of pain rush over him as he struggled to keep to his feet. _Rob, you fucking twat, what have you done now?_

He concentrated on evening out his breathing, on uncurling, on pushing back the pain that had nearly undone him. A pain that wasn't in bone or muscle. A pain that was in his heart, in his soul.

When he'd finally straightened up he forced himself to do up his trainers, to make sure he his t-shirt was pulled down and his shorts were on straight as Halton and Pennell chatted on about other things. It was only when he felt like he had control over the emotions that were roiling through him that he put his duffle in a locker and slammed it shut, then turned the corner to where his two fellow agents were getting into their workout gear in front of a second bank of lockers.

He could see the shock in Pennell's eyes when he turned the corner, and the tiniest hint of a flinch in Halton's shoulders.

He looked at the two of them with a control that cost him dearly. But he wasn't going to show emotion in front of fellow agents. Not when he was still working to get back on active duty. Not when one of those agents was a rank beginner who'd never been operational. Not when the other was a respected agent whose opinion could poison all of MI6 against him.

"I just want to know one thing," he said to them, marvelling at how steady he managed to keep his voice. "Is Williams dead?"

Pennell shook his head.

"No," Halton said.

"All right," he said, not sure if the feeling boiling through him was relief or disappointment or some bizarre mixture of both. He nodded, then headed into the gym, with Pennell and Halton following behind him.

He managed to shut down his feelings as he warmed up on the floor. He practised kicks on a heavy bag, then taped his hands and worked on the speed bag, concentrating on the rhythmic thwack of the bag hitting the platform and trying not to think about Rob. He'd noticed Halton sparring with Pennell on the mats, but tried not to think about them, either. And he'd just about succeeded until he noticed Pennell hesitantly approaching him.

"We were wondering, Halton and I, if you'd like to join us?" Pennell gave him a cautious smile.

Mark gave the speed bag one final, vicious jab, and then turned to Pennell.

"Yeah, all right," he said, and started unwinding the tape from his hands.

Halton gave him a nod as he approached.

"We're doing light contact only," Halton said as he faced Mark, shaking out his arms and legs.

"That's fine with me," Mark said, going into a loose fighting stance, his fists protecting his face, bouncing loosely on the balls of his feet.

They touched fists at Pennell's urging, and then the fight was on. 

Halton made the first touch, a light tap on Mark's cheek, and then one other, a roundhouse kick that connected with Mark's thigh. His right thigh. The one with the scar. Mark didn't flinch at the flare of pain in his leg; he didn't gasp; he didn't pull back. He hunkered down, and watched and waited, and he was ready when Halton made his next move. 

Halton didn't have a chance. 

When he moved in for another kick, Mark moved in and swept Halton's supporting leg out from under him. He went down with an audible oof.

"I don't think that counts as light contact," Halton said ruefully as Mark pulled him to his feet. "Best two of three?"

Mark nodded, clenching his jaw and going into a defensive posture as Halton readied himself. Mark moved in this time before Halton had made a move, and had Halton pinned on the mat with his arm behind his back in seconds. Halton tapped out and Mark released him.

"One more time," Halton said, his face grim.

"I've already won the best of three," Mark said.

"One more time," Halton insisted. Mark shrugged and took his position.

He looked at Halton, and it was like the secrets of the universe had been revealed to him. He looked at the placement of Halton's feet, at the turn of his shoulder, at the way he was holding his hands, at the way his eyes flicked the length of Mark's body, and he knew, absolutely _knew_ , how he was going to attack. And he knew just as surely how to take him down.

Halton surged forward and Mark had him on the mat in less than a second.

Twelve more times he took down Halton, until it was clear the first three times weren't a fluke and Halton had gone from frustrated to determined to accepting.

"Can I have a go?" Pennell finally said.

"He's all yours." Halton bowed to Mark and then waved Pennell to his place.

Halton was tough and experienced, but he wasn't a physically imposing man. He was average height—so a bit taller than Mark—and average build. Pennell might have been new to 6, but he was a big bloke, 6'2" if he was an inch, and built like he'd played a lot of rugby at that posh school he'd gone to.

Mark put him down even quicker than he had Halton.

He stood over Pennell, rolled his shoulders, and took a deep breath. There was a new feeling spreading through his chest, opening up his lungs. The rest of it was still there, the old, rotten stew of emotions he'd felt since Rob had shot him, the anger, the grief, the confusion. But now he felt a new emotion building on top of them. Confidence. 

He smiled, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a way he was quite sure was in no way reassuring, and turned to the crowd that had begun to assemble around their little trio.

"Anyone else?" he asked.

* * *

"Twenty-three," Q said without looking up from the snarl of wires and electronics spread over his bench.

"You've heard, then." M pulled up a stool, wishing not for the first time that his Quartermaster had taken an office like any decent department head instead of keeping his old workbench in amongst his underlings. It would make visits to his space more comfortable, for a start. Not to mention more private.

"Agent Owen takes down twenty-three fellow agents in short order while he's still recovering from a gunshot wound? Of course I've heard." Q finally looked up from his work, his blue eyes flashing. "The whole building's heard. I'd be surprised if civilians on the street out front haven't heard." He put down the screwdriver he was holding. "And that's not the only thing I've heard."

"Ah," M said. It had been too much to hope for, avoiding discussing the other piece of news currently circulating through the halls of this building.

"That's true, too, then," Q said, pursing his lips.

"That Williams was spotted? Unfortunately, yes," said M, even as he glared at one of Q's underlings who'd been about to approach her guv, sending the young woman scurrying away. The other members of the team saw what was up and found reasons to scatter out of the lab. Q's people were quick thinking, at least. "I'd sent 003 to Riga to retrieve an asset we've had in with the Russians. Unfortunately, Williams beat him to the asset's flat. 003 got close enough to take a shot at him—Williams, not the asset—but he escaped. With the asset."

"003 didn't have any problems shooting at a former colleague?"

M shook his head. "The Double Os have a pool going on who can take him out first. They took his betrayal rather badly."

"Not as badly as Owen," Q said, his voice severe.

"No," M agreed. "Not as badly as that. Though given today's events, I think we can safely say he's over the worst of it."

"You didn't see him as much as we did in the hospital. I don't know if he'll ever be over it."

"He's not the same, I agree. But he's shown a surprising amount of strength. Which brings me to the real reason I wanted to talk to you."

"What's that?" By the relaxed tone of his voice, M could tell that Q didn't have the slightest inkling of what he was going to say.

"I think I've found something for Owen to do."

Jason raised an eyebrow in question.

"I need a new Double O."

And that got the expected explosion.

"You must be joking." Q's eyes went wide. "Just because he can spar doesn't mean he's ready to join those mad men."

"He's already better at hand-to-hand combat than a lot of those mad men were when they started. Better than Williams was when you encouraged me to promote him."

Q winced at that, but didn't back down.

"He's a little bloke. He'll be eaten alive in the field."

"Our enemies will underestimate him, but they'll find he's harder than they expect."

"He doesn't have the experience."

"He's been out in the field for three years."

"Infiltrating student organizations. He's never even carried a gun."

"Sergeant Donald can train him up on weapons."

"I don't know that Howard will want to do that. Turn Owen into a killer."

"That's Donald's job, in case you hadn't noticed, teaching our people how to kill. And anyway, Donald can't do what's already been done." M paused and took a breath, hoping he wasn't going too far. "I suspect Williams turned him into a killer when he shot him."

Q finally looked away at that, and M saw the hand holding the edge of his workbench go white at the knuckles. He put his hand over Q's, over Jason's, and gripped it tightly, forcing himself to remember their beginning. To remember when they'd been the only two working-class lads recruited into this place together, when they'd looked out for each other. They owed each other more than either of them could ever say. But they weren't those lads anymore, and they each had a job to do. _He_ had a job to do. It wasn't easy and it wasn't nice, but it kept this country safe. As safe as he could manage, anyway. And to do that job he needed make the best use of every man and woman working under him.

The reports he'd been getting for weeks, from the rehab clinic, from the various therapists and doctors and psychologists Owen had been seeing, had started him thinking that Owen could be one of the best agents he'd ever had the pleasure to work with, clever and skilled and disciplined. But until today he hadn't known if he had it in him to be ruthless enough.

"Listen, Jay," he said, squeezing his Q's hand. "The Owen we knew is broken. Gone. Whether he joins the Double Os or not, that won't change. It would be-" He paused, trying and failing to think of a way to phrase this that wouldn't sound heartless. "It would be a waste of material not to make him a Double O."

Q pulled his hand sharply away at that, and gave M an accusatory look that M met without blinking.

"Why did you come here?" Q asked. "Did you want permission? Did you want absolution?"

M shook his head.

"I don’t need your permission, Jay. And any absolution I need isn't yours to give." He paused and gathered his thoughts. "Maybe I came here out of courtesy."

"Courtesy?" That clearly hadn't been what Jason was expecting to hear. M could see both confusion and anger in his expression.

"Courtesy," M repeated, sure now of what he had to do. "I don't want to lose your friendship, Q. But this _is_ happening. I will groom Owen for the Double Os, Howard will train him in weapons, you and your team will supply him with any necessary equipment."

"And if I refuse to co-operate? If _we_ refuse?"

"If you refuse," M began, once more fully inhabiting the role of operational head of MI6, "then you will be free to seek employment elsewhere. After the appropriate debriefing and fulfilling your obligations under the Official Secrets Act."

Q's expression didn't change. He stared at M for a good long minute, a minute during which M wasn't sure what he was thinking. ( _Q would have made an excellent field agent_ , M couldn't help thinking.) But then he finally blinked.

"I see," he said. "You'll have our co-operation. Of course." Then he bent his neck, a formal display of submission that M didn't believe for an instant.

"Thank you," M said.

"Now, if there isn't anything else I can do for you…" Q nodded meaningfully at the tangle of equipment awaiting his attention on the workbench.

"No, nothing else."

Q bent back to his work without another word, and M took his leave, nodding at the pack of Q's underlings he found milling just outside the lab's entrance.

"You can all go back in now," he said with a wry smile, wondering which one of them—Q or him—they were more frightened of.

Well, the die was cast. He'd declared his intention. Now he really did have to make a Double O of Mark Owen. He just hoped the lad was up for it.

* * *

When Jason strode into the weapons range, Howard didn't think he'd ever seen him so furious. Jason didn't usually do furious. Jason usually did unreasonably calm. But here he was, coming into the weapons range like a storm blowing in from the North Atlantic.

"Let's take a ten minute break," Howard said to the new recruits he'd been training on the Sig Sauer P226. They all turned, took one look at Jason, and then buggered off immediately. 

"Do you know what M wants to do?" Jason said, his voice a hissing whisper.

"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Howard carefully put the safety on the pistol he was holding and turned to place it on the table in front of him.

"He wants to promote Mark into the Double Os."

"Oh," Howard said without turning back around to face Jason. He leaned on the table as he tried to wrap his mind around the possibility of little Markie earning a Double O classification.

"Mark takes out a few people in the gym and suddenly M thinks he's hard enough to be a Double O."

"I heard it was more than a few. I heard it was thirty-six," Howard said, amazed at how calm he felt even in the face of Jason's fury.

"Twenty-three," Jason corrected. "In a gym. Not in the field. Not even on a proper training exercise."

"Twenty-three is still a lot."

"I suppose," Jason admitted. "But that's not the point."

"It might even be a record." Howard tried to remember if he'd heard of anyone else managing anything like it in the time he'd been with 6.

"I don't care if Mark set a record. I care that M wants to turn him into a killer!" Howard finally turned, only to find Jason red-faced and shaking, and looking as terrified as he was livid. "I'd have thought you, of all people would want to stop that." 

Howard wanted nothing more than to bridge the distance between them, to grab Jason and hold him tight until the anger drained out of him, until he stopped shaking quite so much. But he couldn't do that. Not here, in this building. They had a no touching at work rule, him and Jason. At work, he could only use words. So he tried to sort through the conflicting mass of emotions that swirled through his head and his gut.

"It weren't all bad," he tried.

"What?" Jason anger was replaced by confusion.

"My time in the Regiment. It weren't all bad. There's times I wish I'd never left."

"Howard," Jason said, a warning in his voice.

"I've got mates still in, blokes who saw the same stuff I did and are fine."

"How," Jason said, his tone sharper. But Howard ignored him and kept on.

"The thing is, Jay, that not everyone is like me." Howard swallowed hard. "Not everyone breaks." 

"You didn't break," Jason said firmly. 

"I did," Howard replied, just as firmly. He was under no illusions about his own experiences. "But I don't think Mark will. I think he's as tough as any of my mates in the Regiment. Tougher, even."

"You're mental."

"No, I'm not," Howard said, suddenly absolutely sure of what he was saying. "Rob shot him, left him for dead, and he survived. More than survived. He's a tough one, Jay. You've seen that yourself."

He held Jason's gaze until the other man finally nodded, reluctantly, in agreement.

"You're a callous bastard," Jason said. "You and M, both."

"Now, don't go insulting me like that. I'm nothin' like M. I'm more handsome, for a start."

When that actually got the hint of a smile out of Jay, Howard knew the worst was over.

"Now, if you're done, could you send my class back in here. I have to finish turning those numpties into world-class marksmen. And markswomen." He squeezed Jason's shoulder, and spoke more quietly. "We can talk more tonight. My place. All right?"

"All right," Jason said, and if his tone was still a little sad, at least there was a bit of brightness back in his smile.

"Off with you, then." Howard gave Jason a quick cuff 'round the head in place of the kiss he desperately wanted to give him, then set about planning a meal from Jason's favourite takeaway curry house as his students streamed back into the gun range.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbie runs into new Double O agent Mark, with nearly deadly results.

Howard got around me that night with a fiery hot curry and an even hotter kiss that tasted of garam masala and lager. I'd never been able to resist Howard's kisses. Or any part of him, really. Not his hands or his arms of the feel of his tongue and teeth. By the end of the night I still wasn't sure about Mark joining the Double Os, but I was surer than ever about Howard and me.

"We all right?" Howard tightened his arm around me as we lay sprawled on his bed, the sheets in a tangle around our legs.

"'Course we are." I kissed the top of his head.

He just smiled and held me tighter.

Things settled down, but they didn't go entirely back to normal. For a start, there was a cold war in progress between M and me. He never let go of an opportunity to tell me how well Mark was doing in his Double O training. "Better than Rob ever was. Better than anyone, Q." And I never let go of a chance to tell him what a bastard he was.

The worst thing, though, was that I barely saw Mark anymore. Before he'd turned into a bloody ninja in the gym he'd already refused a few invitations of dinner with me and Howard, but now he refused them all. He always had a good excuse—a training exercise the next morning or the need to study a new bit of tradecraft—but I knew they were excuses. He never came by my workbench anymore, either. In fact, the only times he showed up in my lab were when he needed to pick up a piece of equipment or a new weapon. And even then he'd go to one of my team and not me, sparing me no more than a casual wave or a smile that was a ghost of its former self.

He was still in the building, but he was as absent to me as Rob was.

I'm not thick. I knew he was avoiding me. And no wonder. I'd been pretty horrible at hiding my feelings about him joining the Double Os, and even if I hadn't, I was a living reminder of the way things had been before it had all gone to shit.

But I missed him. I missed how he'd been in the beginning, turning up at my workbench with a smile on his face, bubbling over with questions and enthusiasm. I missed him so much that I finally snuck into the observation room of Howard's weapons range on a day I knew Howard was putting Mark through his paces with a Glock pistol.

"He's good," I said when Howard entered the room a few minutes later. Mark was steadily firing through one last clip and I could see he'd placed two tight groups on the target, around the heart and the head.

"He's the best," Howard said, his tone somewhere between admiring and concerned. "Our little Markie can outshoot anyone in the building. Including me."

"Jesus." As I watched, Mark fired the last few bullets in his clip, looked at the target in grim satisfaction, and put the safety on his weapon.

"You should see him with a sniper rifle," Howard said. "I'd hate to have _him_ on the other side."

I shot Howard a look at that—we never talked about Rob turning traitor—but Howard's attention was firmly on Mark as he walked towards the weapons lock-up. Even from the back, I could see how much Mark had changed. His back was straighter, his shoulders pulled back, his stride had a hint of swagger that it had never had before. He looked more confident and sure of himself than I had ever seen him. My doubts began to waver. Perhaps M was right. Perhaps Mark had been made for this life after all. Maybe, unlike Rob, he could thrive in the Double Os. 

And maybe it was time I accepted that.

But if I was going to repair my friendship with Mark, I knew I was going to have to make the first move.

For once in my life, I forced myself to act without spending minutes and hours and days and weeks agonizing over whether I was doing the right thing. I simply turned and walked out the door of the observation room.

"Mark!" I said, lengthening my stride to catch up to him as I heard Howard's steps behind me.

I saw a catch in Mark's step, and then he slowed and turned around, the Glock still held in his hand. His expression was studiously calm, but I thought I could see a hint of caution in his eyes. 

"I just…" I stumbled, not knowing exactly what I wanted to say. 

"Yeah?" Mark's caution was turning into impatience.

"Just…look after yourself, all right?"

It was so much less than I wanted to say, but all that I could manage.

Mark gave me a completely unreadable look, his eyes narrowed, then nodded and began to walk away.

"And…" I scrambled, searching for the thing that would keep Mark here, if only for another few seconds.

Mark stopped, but didn't turn back.

"If you need anything, you ask. And not," I rushed to add, "just Quartermaster sorts of things. I really do mean anything."

Mark didn't move, didn't speak, seemed not to breathe for a good long time. Then he heaved a sigh, nodded without turning, and disappeared into the weapons lock-up.

I didn't wait around for him to emerge, but moved quickly out of the weapons range, pausing only briefly when Howard broke our no-touching-in-headquarters rule and quickly squeezed my shoulder.

A week later, M told me Mark had finished his training.

"He's the best Double O recruit I've seen," M told me.

"So Sergeant Donald says."

"He'll do well, Q. You'll see." And with that, M gave me a pat on the arm and swept off to give Mark his first Double O assignment.

Mark had been on operations before, had been undercover, but Double O assignments were different. Double Os were licensed to kill, and on their assignments, death wasn't just a possibility, it was almost always a certainty. Hard as Mark had become, I still couldn't see him as a killer.

That afternoon, for the first time in a long time, he turned up at my workbench. 

"Hello, Q," he said, his expression as carefully neutral as I was trying to keep mine.

"Mark." I nodded in response.

"I know you said I could ask you for more than Quartermaster sorts of things, but it's the Quartermaster stuff I need now." He handed me a crumpled list that included a Walther P99, my smallest tracking device, and several doses of the truth serum my newest chemistry boffin had come up with.

I carefully put together all the material on Mark's list, showed him how to inject the truth serum into a subject, and reminded him to check the sights on the Walther on the weapons range before he left the building.

"You look after my equipment," I said as I handed him the narrow case that held the serum and its injector pen. "And yourself."

"I'll try and bring it all back in one piece," he said with a thin smile, then headed for the door.

"Mark."

He stopped at the threshold of the lab.

"Good luck."

He nodded without looking back and without saying a word, and then he was gone, leaving me staring at my workbench and wondering if I'd ever see him again.

For five days I heard nothing. Not where Mark had been sent, not what his assignment was. M would tell me nothing, and even the MI6 rumour mill was silent. Howard and I didn't talk about it, but I could tell he was as nervous as me about what might have happened to Mark.

Then, on the evening of the fifth day, as I was working in the lab trying to repair a bug that one of Howard's trainees had seriously bollocksed up, I felt like I was being watched. I looked up and saw a shadowed figure standing in the doorway.

"Mark?" I said, uncertain it was really him. There was something about the way he was holding himself that wasn't quite right, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

He walked forward into the lab, holding his body stiffly, and with a slight catch in his stride. He was holding two small cases I recognized.

"I've brought your equipment back," he said, placing the cases on my workbench. Now that he was close enough, I could see that he had a large, knuckle-shaped bruise under one eye and another bruise on his chin. Christ only knew what injuries his clothes were hiding. "I'd like to keep the Walther. It proved…useful. And I'm afraid the tracker isn't in one piece anymore."

"I'm glad you are."

"More or less." He gave me a wry smile that didn't even come close to his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Best not to."

"Can I tempt you with a curry at my place? I'm nearly done here." I wasn't, but I was willing to drop everything to make sure Mark was okay.

He shook his head. "The only thing I want right now is a bath and my bed, and possibly not even in that order."

"Has medical checked you out?"

"Yeah." He flexed his left arm and stifled a wince. "No bones broken, no internal bleeding. Just a few bruises." He turned to leave.

"I meant it before, Mark. If you need anything, you ask. Me or Howard."

Mark hesitated a few seconds before speaking, and when he did, his voice sounded so tired.

"I will take you up on the curry, Jason. Just not tonight."

"I'll hold you to that."

Mark gave me a brief, grateful smile, and then he slipped silently out of the lab.

I waited one minute before I gave up on the bollocksed bug. The state my head was in, I wasn't going to fix the bloody thing tonight. Instead, I headed for Howard's weapons range, pulled him out of his weapons lock-up where he was making a not-too-successful attempt at inventorying its contents, told him Mark was back, and then dragged him back to my flat, with stops at a chippy and an off-licence. We spent the rest of the night wrapped around each other, feeding each other chips and drinking too much lager, both wordlessly thankful that neither of us would ever be out in the field.

A few days after he returned, Mark officially became a member of the Double Os, and was given his own call number. M delivered that news himself, though without the smugness that had accompanied his usual updates on Mark's progress.

"Owen is now 009," he told me.

"Why on earth would you assign him Williams' number?" I asked, appalled.

"I didn't assign it," M said, his face grim. "He requested it." He paced around my workbench, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Demanded it, actually. Wouldn't accept any other number. And believe me, I tried to give him another one."

"Flippin' 'eck, Gaz," about summed up how I felt. And M was so unsettled he didn't even notice I'd used his old nickname.

But if I was upset about Mark finally being in the Double Os, at least he finally accepted an invitation from Howard and me. We took him out to a posh restaurant—not the one where we'd taken Rob two years before, thank Christ—and toasted him joining the Double Os. It was a more sober celebration this time, with less wine, less laughter, and more knowledge all 'round of what joining 6's elite squad really meant.

At the end of the meal, while Howard stayed to pay the bill, I followed Mark outside. While he pulled out his cigs for a quick smoke, I couldn't help but ask him about his call number.

"Why 009, Mark?" I asked, my voice shaking ever so slightly. "Why take Rob's number?"

Mark took a deep drag of smoke and looked at me with the slight frown I was beginning to accept was his new default expression.

"I have to," he finally said. "I need to undo what Rob did. It feels right to do that with his number."

Typical Mark, that, but it didn't make me feel any better.

And Howard's reaction, when I told him what Mark had said, made me feel even worse.

"Stupid little bugger's going to get himself killed."

But somehow all of us managed to underestimate Mark. He was harder than any of us, even M, had guessed. And as we were about to find out, his emotions ran far deeper than any of us suspected.

* * *

Addiction was a funny old thing. 

His current masters had used Rob's addictions to gain control over him. But now that he was working for them full-time, they had started looking at those addictions as a liability to be got rid of. Rob couldn't blame them. He didn't suppose he'd want someone working for him who was constantly drunk or high.

The problem had been what to do with him. They couldn't just ship him off to the nearest rehab facility, not when the entire intelligence community of Great Britain and the E.U. was after him. But he did wish they'd chosen a different solution.

They'd given him a keeper. And in their infinite wisdom, they'd decided that the person to keep him off drugs was the very person who'd been supplying him with drugs in the first place: Nigel Martin Smith. 

He'd almost rather have been stuck in a cell with that arrogant prick, Barlow. Nigel had an uncanny ability to annoy the living piss out of him. Every time he opened his mouth, it was to run Rob down or issue orders about what he could or couldn't do. The would-be pop impresario and dodgy drug dealer was a right wanker. The only thing that made it bearable was the fear he could see in Nigel's eyes every time Rob tooled up for a mission. It was only when he was cleaning his weapon or loading a clip with bullets that Nigel seemed to realize that the man he was so used to bossing around was a trained killer. 

He wasn't nearly as bad as the men who controlled them both, though. Rob still wasn't sure who they were or what their game was. They weren't Spectre or SMERSH or ISIS, weren't all Russian or Arab or Chinese. They seemed to him nothing more than a bunch of rich white bastards who seemed to want to get richer, whatever the cost. In the absence of any other name, Rob had taken to calling them the RWBs, but only in his own head. After all, he wasn't completely suicidal. Yet.

The RWBs demanded his service and Nigel was charged with keeping him off the booze and blow, but none of them could be with him on a mission, so Rob had got into a cycle. He'd stay sober between missions, listening to Nigel's shit and suffering the RWBs' insults and condescension. He'd stay sober on the missions themselves, too, completing whatever unpleasant job he'd been assigned, whatever theft or kidnapping or assassination the RWBs needed done, as quickly as he could. Then, before Nigel or anyone else could retrieve him, he'd go to ground in some rancid rat hole and consume a never-ending stream of vodka and whatever drugs he'd managed to score before going into hiding.

They always found him in the end, Nigel and the RWBs' other tame killers. The trick was hiding well enough so that they didn't find him until he'd drunk enough vodka and taken enough drugs to stop the memory of all the men and women he'd killed, stop the vision of Mark bleeding out on the floor of M's office. Because when they found him, they'd drag him back to wherever he was calling home this week and start the process of drying him out, and then the screams in his head would start all over again.

The one thing that kept him from putting a bullet in his head and getting it over with was Mark. Because the RWBs had yet again altered the terms of his "employment." Before, they'd told him that Mark would be killed if he stopped working for them, if he tried to betray them, or if he tried to defect. But once they'd realized the extent to which he was damaged, they'd made it clear that if Rob died, whether by his own hand or another's, they'd not only kill Mark, but make him suffer before.

He wouldn't be responsible for any more of Mark's pain. He just wouldn't. And if that meant he had to suffer himself, well, it was only what he deserved.

"Are you ready, or what, Robbie?" Nigel bleated at him.

Rob clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to shoot Nigel with the pistol clutched in his hand.

"Nearly, Nige."

Nigel shot him a look of annoyance, but didn't say anything else. He hated being called Nige, so of course that was what Rob called him all the fucking time. Especially when he was holding a gun and Nigel wasn't. It was such petty pleasures that got Rob through the day.

He checked his clip before pushing it home and then put the gun in his shoulder holster. He made sure his extra clips were easily accessible, and that the knife strapped to his right ankle was secure, then put on the black leather jacket he favoured these days and patted the case in its breast pocket that held a syringe of poison.

He hated jobs like this, straightforward assassinations of little men in little jobs who knew something that the RWBs wished they didn't. This time it was a government drone in Albania who'd stumbled upon a plot the RWBs had put in motion in the Balkans and had made the unfortunate decision to go to the Brits with it. Rob's job was to kill the poor bastard before he could share the details of what he knew.

Normally, the RWBs wouldn't have sent Rob within a hundred miles of where the Brits were operating, but they didn't have a choice. Word was the Brits would arrive at any time to interrogate the drone, and Rob was the only operative they had free in the area, the only one who could get here soon enough. Rob was just annoyed. He didn't know Tirana as well as most cities in Europe, didn't know where he could hide from Nigel once he'd killed his target, didn't know where to get the best booze and drugs. He was going to need oblivion after this job, after killing some poor bloke who didn't know what he'd stumbled into and only wanted to get home to his wife and kids at the end of the day. 

He zipped up his jacket, looked up, and gave Nigel a wink.

"Don't wait up for me, Mother," he said, earning a scowl for his trouble.

"You get right back here after the job's done," Nigel said. "None of your usual pratting around. I don't fancy chasing after you again. Not after the last time."

The last time, it had taken Nigel three days to chase Rob down to a crack den in the former East Berlin. Rob had blessedly few memories of what had happened when Nigel finally caught up to him, but he hoped to fuck that he'd given Nigel a horrible time.

"Whatever you say, Nige," Rob said without a backward glance, then he was out of the flat with the door slamming behind him.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his collar up against the autumn breeze that had more than a hint of winter in it. He walked from the unremarkable apartment block that housed the flat they were using as a base, and began walking towards the Biloku, the trendy Tirana neighbourhood he'd been told his target visited after work every day. Rob circled the block that contained the café his target favoured, then found a seat at another café across the street to wait.

He ordered a strong coffee, and sipped at it as he watched the crowds ebb and flow around him. The people who frequented the area were young, younger than his target by at least a decade. There were the locals, smartly dressed and out for a night on the town, and the backpackers, slightly scruffier but also clearly out to party. Rob watched as a group of Australian blokes passed him by, talking about the best Tirana clubs. Bet they'd know where to go to get completely off your face, he thought, wishing he could run after them and ask them.

He forced his thoughts back to his assignment just in time to see a mousy man in his forties take a seat at the café across from him. The man carefully placed his briefcase beside his chair and called over a waiter. He had a coffee and a pastry placed in front of him in less than a minute, and then proceeded to take small sips of his coffee in between careful bites of his pastry.

He didn't look like much, this Arjan Varoshi. He certainly didn't look like a bloke who needed killing. And yet, here was Rob, waiting for his chance to stick a needle in his neck or a bullet in his head.

Rob took a sip of his own coffee and wished it were something much stronger.

He sat for half an hour, watching Varoshi, making sure he'd paid his waiter well before he needed to move. It would be just his luck, having a waiter run after him for the price of a cup of coffee just as he was moving in for a kill.

The shadows had lengthened and it was beginning to cool when Varoshi finished the last of his pastry, carefully patted his mouth with his napkin, and picked up his briefcase. Rob was on his feet instantly, moving into a shadowed doorway and then following as Varoshi moved further into the maze of streets. The Biloku was a crowded area, but there were pockets where it was quiet, alleys and side streets with barely any traffic, and Varoshi's usual route home passed by at least two such places Rob had scouted out ahead of time. Rob found himself balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to move as Varoshi drew near to the first such quiet area.

He reached into his jacket pocket, putting his hand on the case holding the syringe, and then stopped. There was movement up ahead, a man emerging from the alley Varoshi was approaching.

Rob stumbled, his body recognizing something about this intruder before his brain did.

"Mark?" he said, even as he told himself it was impossible. Mark was in England, had to be in England. There was no reason on earth he'd be here in Tirana, approaching the man Rob had been ordered to kill.

The man turned towards him, and Rob saw his face in the last light of dusk. The face bore an expression of frowning concentration. It was not an expression Rob had seen on Mark's face before, but it was Mark. He was sure of it.

"Markie!" He'd never thought he'd see Mark again, and yet here he was, looking fit and healthy. 

For a brief second he thought that perhaps this was his happy ending. He could explain to Mark what had happened, why he'd shot him. They could escape together and he could keep Mark safe for the rest of his life. But then reality came crashing down.

Mark's expression changed from a frown to shock to rage. While Rob was still caught up in his happy ending fantasy, Mark began to shift his position, his hand moving swiftly behind his back and emerging with a pistol that he aimed straight at Rob's heart.

By the time Rob realized he was in danger, Mark was nearly in firing stance, the gun supported in two hands as he moved his feet apart. And even then, with Mark a second from pulling the trigger, he nearly didn't move. Euphoria turned into desolation, and he thought that yeah, he deserved this, deserved to be shot by a furious Mark.

He closed his eyes and held his breath, hoping that Mark's aim was true, hoping that death would come quickly. But then there was a crash, and swearing in both Albanian and English, and Rob opened his eyes to find that Varoshi, the reason he was here in the first place, the man he'd entirely forgotten about, had panicked and pushed Mark and was currently running down the alley Mark had emerged from.

As Mark struggled to regain his balance, Rob discovered that he really didn't want to die, not even by Mark's hand. He began to run back the way he'd come, ducking as he heard a bullet whine past his ear and strike a brick wall in front of him.

Rob zigged at the sound of another shot, and this time felt an explosion of pain down his left arm. He was hit. But he used the pain to spur him on, running down alleys in an escape route he'd mapped out the day before, checking at each corner to see Mark dropping further and further behind him. Three more turns, and he couldn't see Mark behind him at all. With dusk rapidly turning into night, he pulled into a doorway and bound the wound on his arm—just a crease—tightly so he was leaving no blood trail behind him. Then he moved back into the streets, moving with the crowds in an effort to evade the increasing numbers of Tirana police who were flooding into the streets. After what seemed like forever, he finally arrived at the building he'd emerged from only two hours before.

"You're back early," Nigel said as Rob opened the door and stepped inside.

"Nige," Rob said, feeling the adrenaline that had kept him moving through the streets quickly receding from his veins. "There's been a bit of a complication."

And then he found himself sliding down the wall before ending with a bump on the floor as Nigel looked at him in horror.

* * *

It was supposed to be a routine assignment. Pick up an Albanian official, Arjan Varoshi, who said he had intel about a conspiracy affecting Britain. Take the bloke to the embassy in Tirana. Offer him and his family protection if they needed it. M had presented it as a low-risk mission, a reward after his last one, one where he'd been beaten and shot at and had to fight tooth and nail to survive and succeed.

A low-risk mission, so he'd gone in not expecting anything unusual. He'd stood waiting in the alley the target had suggested for their meeting, an out-of-the-way street in the Biloku, a district of cafés and bistros and nightclubs full of excited young people chatting and singing and dancing into the evening.

Then everything had changed.

He'd heard the target approach, and moved carefully out of the alley to meet him, only to hear a voice from his past.

"Mark?" 

He turned at his name, and there was Rob stood on the pavement behind his target looking gobsmacked.

"Markie!" Rob said, and his whole face lit up as if he didn't remember the last time they'd seen each other, didn't remember it had ended with a bullet and blood and betrayal.

Mark felt a blaze of anger flame through his body. How _dare_ Rob look pleased to see him? How _dare_ he not realize the grief he'd caused? Without realizing he was doing it, Mark was moving rapidly towards Rob, automatically evaluating the threat he posed in the way Howard and his other MI6 trainers had taught him. He could see the bulge of a gun under the leather jacket Rob wore, but Rob hadn't yet begun to reach for it. Rob was standing flat-footed, not anywhere near ready to move, and his arms hung loosely at his side.

A different part of Mark's mind noted how thin Rob was, how the skin under his eyes was bruised with fatigue and how a slight tremor shook his hands. Mark told that bit of his mind to shut the fuck up.

He pulled his own gun from its holster, took a solid firing stance and aimed, all the while wondering why Rob wasn't moving, wasn't defending himself, wasn't doing something. _Run, Rob, you stupid bastard_ , the mutinous part of his mind screamed. _Run!_

But Rob didn't run. Instead he closed his eyes and turned his head, a willing sacrifice.

"Fuck," Mark muttered under his breath and forced his finger into the trigger guard. But before he could pull the trigger, his target, Varoshi, seemed to wake up to the danger surrounding him. The man shouted and pushed Mark away, spoiling his aim, and began running away from both Mark and Rob.

Rob opened his eyes, looking stunned that he was still alive, and then he began to run as well, in the opposite direction from Varoshi.

"Fuck!" Mark shouted this time. He shot, his bullet ricocheting chips of brick and missing Rob entirely.

Mark had a second to decide who to chase, Varoshi or Rob. There was never any real doubt about what his choice would be.

He took one more shot, a shot that struck Rob's arm, though it didn't slow him down at all, and then he hared off after his former friend. It was the logical thing to do, he reasoned with himself. He knew where Varoshi lived, after all, could seek him out later. But if he lost Rob, Rob would disappear once again into Europe's underground, a poisonous ghost free to kill and betray again.

Mark was fresh and healthy and hadn't just been shot in the arm, but Rob took the turns through streets and alleys with a familiarity Mark didn't have and kept increasing the distance between them. Rob turned one more corner far ahead of him, and by the time Mark pelted onto the same street, Rob was nowhere to be seen. His chest heaving, Mark searched for a sign of which way Rob had gone, a drop of blood, a disconcerted passerby, but found nothing. He wanted to scream, to rage, to shoot his gun into the air, but he finally became aware of the stir he was creating, of the worried eyes looking at his gun, of the feet scurrying away from his presence.

He took a deep breath and replaced his gun in the holster at the small of his back just before a cluster of police arrived in the street, looking around them with their own weapons out. He faded into an alley, and worked his way back to his starting place, evading the increasing numbers of police he ran into.

Varoshi was, of course, long gone.

Mark kicked at a crumbling brick wall, and then set off for the block of flats where he knew Varoshi lived with his family, after first abandoning his jacket and grabbing a drab trench coat and a battered trilby from the coat stand of a nearby restaurant in a quick attempt at disguise. 

It was a flawed plan—Varoshi had asked to meet with a British agent far away from his home to protect his family—but it was the only plan he had.

He travelled through the streets with a constant eye out for pursuit, either from Rob or the Albanian authorities, but managed to pass through the streets without anyone giving him a second look. But his arrival at Varoshi's flat only brought more failure.

The door to the flat was ajar. Mark confirmed there was no one watching, then brought out his gun and pushed the door open with its tip. He moved through the flat exactly as he'd been trained, making sure each room was empty before moving on to the next. And each room was empty, though full of the sort of clutter and chaos that showed it had been abandoned in haste.

Mark shut the door of the flat, put his gun on the kitchen table in easy reach, and sat heavily in a rickety wooden chair, head in his hands.

Even as he sat, he heard sirens and a commotion in front of the building. He stood and peered out through the window in time to see two police cars pull up front and horde of police officers pour out of them.

"Shit."

He pulled the stolen trilby back on his head and headed quickly out of the flat. He made it to the stairwell just before the lift chimed and disgorged four Albanian police, chattering excitedly and heading straight for Varoshi's flat. Fortunately, Albanian coppers weren't as efficient as MI6 agents, and he made it out of the building before it was completely locked down, walking quickly, but not too quickly, through the streets until he'd made it to a 6 safehouse he hoped wasn't as compromised as Varoshi's flat.

He threw the bolt on the safehouse door and sat on the tatty sofa in the lounge, finally letting the rage and adrenaline that had flooded his body at the sight of Rob fade, leaving a shaking despair in their place. He'd told himself a thousand times that Rob didn't matter to him anymore, that he didn't need to think about him, but seeing Rob, seeing Rob smile at him that way, had exposed that for the lie it was.

Rob did still matter to him. He could feel something like love for Rob still coiled around his heart. But that love had stripped him of all sense, had made him abandon an assignment, had made him fuck up. His love for Rob had cut into his heart until he was once again bleeding. As he sat in the dusty flat he could feel the remaining tatters of that love fester into hatred.

He was going to find Rob. Find him and bind him and make him pay for everything Mark had suffered. But first he was going to have to straighten out the mess he'd created here, in Tirana, the mess Rob had led him into.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, set it to use MI6's secure satellite network, and dialled M's number.

* * *

By the time Moneypenny buzzed him on the intercom, M had been up for thirty-six hours straight. In that time he had convinced the Albanians that he hadn't been running an operation on their soil without their knowledge; been called on by the Home Secretary to explain what the hell they'd been doing in Albania anyway; tried, unsuccessfully, to track down the Albanian civil servant at the centre of the storm; and, most annoyingly of all, spent far too much time finding a way to get a very wanted Double O agent out of Albania. A Double O agent he'd ordered to report to him as soon as he arrived on British soil.

"009 is here," Moneypenny told him.

"Let him wait," M told her before stabbing the disconnect button, knowing very well that Owen could hear him over the intercom. The little bastard had given him a very long night. He would give him several very long minutes.

Ten minutes and thirty seconds later, he finally had Moneypenny usher Owen into his office. Owen had dark circles under his eyes and he smelled of none-too-clean straw, diesel fuel, and cigarettes, courtesy no doubt of the farmer's wagon and smuggler's boat M had used to get him out of Albania. He'd made the final leg from Naples to London in an MI6 jet, though M had thought seriously about making him fly coach into Gatwick. 

Tired he might be, but Owen also looked determined, with his mouth a pinched narrow line, and his eyes boring straight into M. 

"I want to be the one to go after him," Owen said before M could get out a word. He didn't specify who the "him" was, but then, he didn't really have to, did he?

"The only thing you're going to be going after is tea for the other Double Os," M snapped back at him, Owen's lack of any show of repentance irritating him no end. "You've just caused an international incident. The Minister has ordered you put on administrative suspension for a week. You'll be lucky if I let you out of the building in a month."

"You can't do that!" Owen's determination fused into anger, an anger directed at M.

"I can, and I bloody well will," M bellowed. "I want agents in the field who have some sense. Not ones who stage gun battles in the capitals of our allies."

"I'm sorry, sir," Owen said, the tiniest hint of remorse finally audible in his voice. "But it was an unexpected encounter. Williams surprised me."

"You're a Double O, Owen. You're not meant to be surprised by anything."

"Sorry, sir." Owen finally began to look like a man who realized how much trouble he was in. Which made M relax. Slightly. Until Owen spoke again. "But you have to send me back out."

"Why would I do something as idiotic as that?"

"Because I can bring Williams in." Owen's conviction sounded unshakeable.

"How can you be sure?"

Owen frowned at the bookshelves behind M's head for a few seconds and then took a long breath.

"Williams was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. But when he saw me…he smiled." Owen's frown deepened. "It was the sort of smile Rob used to give me all the time." Owen's voice was calm, but M thought he saw a hint of stronger emotions in his eyes. "Then, when I drew my weapon there was a moment when he was ready to let me shoot him. I believe he still has feelings for me." Owen's expression hardened completely. "I can exploit those feelings."

Exploiting feelings was what they did in MI6. Get an asset to like you, to trust you or to fear you, and you could begin to extract the information they had. M tried not to think about why hearing Owen talk about doing just that made him feel slightly queasy.

"You can only exploit those feelings if you can find him," M said, and it was only the truth. "And he seems to have disappeared completely."

"He was tailing Varoshi," Owen said. "Have you found Varoshi yet?"

"Not yet, but it's only a matter of time. We're tracking down every friend he has in the area. A job that has been made a lot harder, now that the Albanians are looking to stop English agents working on their soil."

Owen had the good grace to look slight sheepish at that, but only for a moment.

"Find Varoshi, send me in, and I'll get Williams."

"You want to use a civilian, and a citizen of another country, as bait?"

"It's your best bet for finding Williams."

M looked closely at Owen, weighing the potential advantages against the very real possible losses.

"You need to take Williams alive and keep Varoshi that way, too," M insisted, without promising anything outright.

"You'll get them both alive," Owen agreed, his expression grim. "And with Williams _and_ Varoshi, we might even get more than a traitor."

"What do you mean?"

"Williams was tailing Varoshi," Owen said. "And Varoshi had information about a conspiracy involving Britain in some way. What if Varoshi's conspiracy has something to do with why Williams turned?"

"Hmmm." M wanted to sound noncommittal, but Owen's theory made a certain amount of sense. And it made him irritated with himself. He'd been so busy putting out all the fires Owen had lit that he hadn't taken the time to consider the broader implications of Williams being spotted in Tirana. Considering broader implications was what he prided himself on doing best.

"You know I'm right," Owen said, his eyes sparkling, and for a second M could almost see the lively boy he'd first recruited.

"Well, you're probably not wrong," M allowed. "Not about _this_."

Owen shot him a smile that managed to be both smug and cold, a smile that made M very uncomfortable. 

"But there is still the problem of you being officially on suspension."

"But—" Owen began to protest.

M put up a hand to stop him.

"Do us both a favour. Go home, get some rest, and give me time to calm down the Home Secretary. I should be able to convince him you're the one for the job in a day or two. And by then we should know where Varoshi is."

"Yes, sir." Owen stood at attention and gave him a formal nod, before he turned and left the office. 

Watching him go, M felt a knot of anxiety tie itself tighter in his guts. There were so many ways all of this could go wrong, starting with 009 himself. He was still convinced that Owen had the potential to be one of the best agents he'd had the privilege to command, but Williams might destroy that potential. M feared this mess would end with Williams and Owen both dead at each other's hands.

But he was too much a realist to think he could steer this ship in another direction. It was an ocean liner headed straight for an iceberg, and he could only hold on and hope that he could get all passengers and crew to the lifeboats when it struck.

* * *

The rumours had already started flying around HQ by the time Howard arrived in the morning. Mark was dead, and Rob had killed him. Or Rob was dead, and Mark had done it. Or they were both dead. Or were both missing. 

The stories were worrying, but the details were so fantastic and changed so rapidly from one telling to the next that the one thing Howard was sure of was that they were all bollocks. So, when someone finally told him the truth, he didn't believe it.

"009's back," Ellis, one of his trainees told him. "Ryan saw him going into M's office."

"And I'm taking tea with the Queen this afternoon," Howard shot back at her. "Now get back to work. You've got to improve your scores if you want operational status."

Ellis stuck her tongue out at him—there was no respect from these youngsters—reloaded her gun and turned back to her target.

Howard didn't think anything more of it until he was letting out his class half an hour later and Mark walked onto his weapons range.

Mark barely looked like himself. His face was drawn, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion, and he was wearing a trench coat that had obviously been pinched from someone with no sense of style whatsoever. He looked like he was keeping upright through willpower alone.

"Hi, Howard," Mark said calmly, as if there were no rumours of his death floating about the building.

"You look like shit," Howard told him.

Mark gave a short barking laugh.

"That's what I like about you, Howard. You're so tactful."

"You lot wouldn't know what to do if I had tact." He narrowed his eyes as Mark moved closer to him. "Seriously, though, you all right?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "M's sent me home for the day. And I was wonderin'…" He trailed off and looked at Howard hopefully.

"You want a ride home, then?"

"Yes, please." 

A trained killer Mark might be now, but scratch him and you could still find the polite boy from Oldham lurking beneath.

"All right. I'm done here for the day. Just let me call Jason." Mark's shoulders tensed immediately. "Or not. Listen, I thought you'd made up with Jason."

"I did," Mark insisted. "It's just…" He seemed to struggle for the words. "I don't want to think too much right now."

"Well, you'll want to avoid Jason, then. There's no one worse for thinking too much." He gave Mark a cheeky grin that Mark returned in kind. "You still in Wandsworth?" He grabbed his keys and his jacket and shepherded Mark out of the range, shutting down lights and locking up as he went.

Howard drove through the beginnings of rush hour traffic, which was bloody awful as always, with Mark sitting silent beside him, his hands wrapping themselves around each other in a nervous dance. 

Howard let him alone. Christ knew there were times after he'd landed in the shit with the Regiment that he hadn't wanted to talk either.

It was Mark who finally broke the silence.

"I were shit scared, How." Mark finally said as they passed near Battersea Park. He stared out the windscreen at the shops on the street, not meeting Howard's gaze.

"You'd be an idiot not to be scared. Everyone's scared in the field." Howard would never forget how fucking petrified he'd been on ops, how his palms had sweated and his heart had pounded in his chest.

"The other Double Os aren't."

"If they say they aren't, they're lying. Or fucking stupid."

Mark laughed, then caught himself and went quiet again for another few streets.

"I shot him, you know," Mark said. "Rob, I mean." His voice was quiet and calm. Howard risked a glance at him and found Mark still staring out the windscreen, his face completely impassive.

"Shot at him, you mean." Because no matter what had happened, Howard couldn't quite see Mark actually hurting Rob.

"No. I shot him. Caught him in the arm. I saw the hit, saw the blood spray." Mark stopped, and Howard saw him clutch at his legs as if to stop the movement of his hands. "Didn't slow him down, though. He always could run faster than me."

"Oh," Howard said, not sure what else he could say to this confession.

"I'm going after him," Mark said, his voice hardening.

"Are you sure…"

"M's already tried to talk me out of it," Mark said, turning to Howard with his eyes gone hard and his chin jutting out. "But it's got to be me. I've got to make it right." He stopped talking and Howard could hear him swallow.

"You've got nothing to make right," Howard said. "It's not your fault Rob's a traitor."

Howard saw the tiniest little flinch at the corner of Mark's eye.

"But what if I could've stopped him? What if there was something I should've seen and didn't? I've got to be the one to stop him, Howard." He stopped and took a deep breath. "I'm only worried I'll fuck it up."

"You're one of the best agents I've trained, Mark. You won't fuck it up."

"I might, How. I've promised M to bring him in alive. And I'm not sure I can do that. I hate him," Mark said, and the terrifying thing wasn't that his voice sounded hard, but that it sounded completely calm. "As much as I loved him, that's how much I hate him. And I'm afraid when I see him again I won't just shoot him in the arm."

"Jesus," Howard breathed out.

He gripped the steering wheel hard, trying not to let Mark see his hands shake, trying to ignore the stabbing pain behind his heart. They finished the rest of the drive in a silence that had too much emotion lurking behind it.

Afterwards, Howard was never sure what he mumbled to Mark when he dropped him at his flat, or how he managed the drive back through London without running into a lamp post or another car. He certainly had no idea where he was going until he turned off the ignition and realized he was parked in front of Jason's building.

He sat in the car for a few minutes, debating whether he should go back to his own flat, but in the end he just didn't want to be alone. He buzzed Jason's flat, and when there was no answer he let himself in with the key Jason had given him. He sat on the sofa waiting for Jason, as the shadows in the room lengthened and the light faded and far too many thoughts and feelings and memories roiled through his mind. 

When he finally heard a key in the lock, he found himself in a darkness broken only by a strip of sickly yellow light from the streetlight outside, his knees drawn up to his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Rob's mysterious employers decide they want to see one of his old friends, things go from bad to worse.

Things really went to shit after what all of 6 started calling the Albanian incident.

M turned up in my lab that day, biting his lip and with his fingers beating a tattoo on his leg in nervous energy, the rift that had existed between us for months forgotten for the moment.

"Owen's back," he said softly.

I saw a couple of my staff lean in a bit closer—headquarters had been full of rumours of what 009 may or may not have done all that day, and even the dullest of my people were bursting with curiosity—but I shot them a look and they all buggered off.

"In one piece?" I asked, steeling myself for the worst.

"Yeah." M pulled a stool over to my workbench, the sound of the scraping of its legs on the floor tiles rubbing raw against my nerves. "He shot Williams, though." 

I drew in a sharp breath, and M looked up at me.

"Didn't kill him. Got him in the arm before Williams escaped." The crease between M's brows deepened. "He wants to be the one to take Williams in."

"I'm not surprised." I thought back to Mark telling me he wanted to be the one to undo what Rob had done.

"You're not?" M clearly was.

"Owen has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility."

"He's got more than that." 

"What do you mean?"

"He's become…" M trailed off as he seemed to cast about for the right word before he lit on it, "pitiless." 

"Hmmm." I couldn't quite see Mark as pitiless, however much he'd gone through. And as it turned out, neither could Howard. I arrived at my flat that night to find Howard curled up on my sofa in the dark.

"How?" 

I put my hand lightly on Howard's shoulder, and tried not to react when he flinched from my touch, watching as he unfolded himself and turned to me.

"Mark's back," he said, his voice sounding hollow. "I gave him a ride home and came over here." He swallowed. "Hope you don't mind."

"'Course not, How." I sat down beside him without breaking my hold on him. We sat in the dark for ages, the quiet of the flat interrupted only by the muted hum of traffic and the occasional shout from one of the neighbourhood kids. I was the one that finally broke the silence.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" I asked, and carefully squeezed his shoulder.

Howard took a couple of deep breaths, then he started talking.

"Mark asked me for a ride home. He didn't say much at first, and I didn't ask him anything. I know what it's like, not wanting to talk. But when he did talk, first thing he told me was how scared he'd been. Poor bastard."

Howard's breathing was coming faster now, like he'd been running. I rubbed his arm until he calmed down enough to continue.

"He told me he's going after Rob, that he hates him, that he's afraid he'll kill him—." Howard broke off and sniffed, and then turned and buried his face in my shoulder. 

"M called Mark pitiless," I said.

"M's a fuckin' idiot," Howard shot back, hotly, his voice cracking at the end. "Mark's a tough little beggar, but underneath it all he's still just a sweet kid from Oldham. It were a fucking awful idea, turning him into a killer."

I restrained myself from pointing out that I'd said that from the start. It was hardly the time for an "I told you so." Instead, I held Howard as he pretended not to cry and I pretended not to notice. Then, when his shoulders had stopped shuddering, I gave him a hug, and then went to the kitchen to make cheese toasties for us both. We washed them down with more vodka tonics than was good for either of us, then I steered him into bed and watched over him as he slipped into a troubled sleep.

I wasn't a "fuckin' idiot." I knew this was about more than turning a sweet kid from Oldham into a killer. It was also about a sweet kid from Droylsden who'd been turned into a killer, and the damage that had done to him. I was never more grateful that Howard's working day was spent safe in MI6 headquarters, not on some battlefield or out on the streets of a hostile city.

Mark, however, was still determined to fight the good fight, whatever it cost him.

After a few days, Mark disappeared again, possibly back to Albania, possibly to track down Williams, though M wasn't willing to say and no one else knew. He re-appeared a week later, without Williams, but with a rather bedraggled, mousy-looking man, the man's formidable wife, and their two young kids. The woman looked determined to protect her family, no matter what. The kids clung to their mum and looked like they didn't know what had happened to them. The mousy man—Varoshi, an Albanian civil servant the rumour mill said—disappeared into the interrogation department to reveal whatever secrets he carried, while his family was shuttled off to a safe house in Surrey.

Varoshi had been a minor official in a minor ministry, but it turned out he was sharp, meticulous, and persistent. When he'd noticed signs of corruption, he'd started tracking them, pulling at loose threads to see what they were connected to. He'd revealed a pattern so terrifying that he'd set up a meeting with a British intelligence agent in hopes of trading secrets for safety. And had apparently provoked the cabal he'd tried to expose into sending Williams after him.

Knowing that an international criminal organization was after you would have paralyzed many people, but not Varoshi. According to M, it had made the man even more willing to share what he knew, to do what he could to bring down the villains he'd uncovered. M didn't tell me any details of what Varoshi was saying—it was all beyond my security rating—but one of the old duffers still lurking in 6's research department said he hadn't seen the higher-ups so rattled since Philby had scarpered to the Soviet Union. 

M was certainly jittery—his hands were in constant, nervous motion, his expression was a perpetual frown—and no wonder. There was a perpetual stream of grey-faced men from the Ministry constantly in and out of his office.

Mark wasn't jittery. 

Not at all. In fact, after he came back with Varoshi, I realized why M had called Mark pitiless.

Mark was a lean, black-clad ghost haunting headquarters, his mouth a thin line that never wore a smile. The sweet kid from Oldham Howard had still been able to see after Mark's encounter with Rob had vanished completely. 

Agent 009 was now nothing more nor less than a weapon M could use against Rob and his invisible masters. And use the weapon he did.

Mark would appear in my lab at regular intervals with a list of weapons and explosives and all manners of mayhem-causing equipment. He'd carefully check his gear, and then I wouldn't see him for days or weeks at a time.

News of his successes would always arrive ahead of him—he'd cracked a terror cell in the Balkans, rooted out corrupt officials in Bonn, done so many things to stamp out the conspiracy Varoshi had drawn our attention to—but he never seemed pleased with what he'd done. When one of my team congratulated him on his latest success, his only reply was a frown. Because to his mind he'd done nothing but fail.

"I missed him again," Mark told me one night when he was checking in the gear from his latest mission. It was late, and we were alone in the dimly lit lab. He didn't need to tell me who the "him" was. "He was meant to be in Lisbon, but he was gone by the time I got there."

"You shut down the smuggling ring, though." M had already been in to tell me about Mark's latest success. "That's the main thing."

"Not to me, it isn't." Mark slammed down the case he was passing to me a little harder than necessary. I looked up from my checklist, and that's when I noticed Mark's cheek.

"What's this?" I reached forward and touched the scab of black and red streaking the right side of his face.

"It's nothin'," Mark said, and flinching away from me. "Just a graze."

"A graze?" My voice went up. "A bullet graze?"

"People do shoot at me, Jay. It's part of the job. It's why you give me the guns."

"But an inch to the left…" I left the thought uncompleted, and gently turned his face back to me so I could clearly see the damage. The wound wasn't long, two inches at most, but it would scar if Mark didn't look after it. And his gauntness told me he wasn't looking after himself much. 

"An inch to the right and it would have missed me entirely," Mark said, his voice as steady as his gaze. M's voice went through my head, _pitiless_ , before Mark pushed my hand away.

"Would you like to come over for dinner?" I blurted out. Not that I held out much hope. Mark had accepted invitations to dinner occasionally, but not often. "Tonight? Or tomorrow?"

"No," Mark said. Then added, "thank you," the sweet boy from Oldham briefly raising his head. "I just want to sleep tonight. And tomorrow I'm off to the Baltic." He shrugged and adjusted the holster at his side, the weapon he never travelled without any more. "There's a rumour that Rob's been spotted in Riga."

"Let someone else go," I said, suddenly wanting nothing more than to see Mark out of this game completely.

"I can't." Mark looked up at me, his mouth as grim and determined as it had been all these months. _Pitiless_ , I thought again. But then I looked into his eyes. 

His eyes weren't pitiless. His eyes showed the fear he had confessed to Howard. His eyes showed me the full cost he'd paid for everything that had happened to him and everything that he'd done.

Mark stared at me for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. 

But then it was almost as if Mark realized what I was seeing. He blinked once, and then his eyes were as closed off at the rest of him.

"I've got to go," he said, heading out the door before I could say anything. "Say hi to Howard for me." He was gone before I could argue with him anymore.

I knew I wasn't going to get anything more done, so I turned off the lights, locked up the lab, and left the building. I didn't mean to go to Howard's—it was late and we both started work earlier than most—but that was where I ended up.

"Anythin' wrong?" Howard asked when he opened the door.

"Mark," was all I had to say for Howard to pull me into his flat and wrap me in a hug that nearly drove the breath out of me. Not that I minded.

"Mark isn't going to survive this, is he?" I asked, a long time later. We were tangled up together in Howard's messy, comfortable bed.

"I don't know," Howard said with a sigh. "He's a tough little beggar."

"You keep saying that."

"It's true."

"But is he tough enough?"

Howard shut me up with a kiss, and I was entirely happy to let him do it.

* * *

Every time Rob thought he'd hit rock bottom, he'd find that he was only on another thin brittle ledge with a long drop waiting for him. Betraying his country, shooting Mark, being shot by Mark had all been bad, terrible, horrific. Now he was being hunted by Mark, and that was the worst thing yet. 

The worst, because it brought up all sorts of awful temptations. He'd hear Mark was on his trail, and wonder what would happen if he was just a little too slow clearing out of a safe house. Or he'd catch a glimpse of Mark on a crowded street and be tempted to stop and wave instead of slinking out of sight. Or Mark would get far too close and take a shot at him, and Rob would think, yet again, about closing his eyes and letting Mark's bullet find him.

This time, Rob had been in Riga, overseeing one of the RWBs' lucrative smuggling networks, moving goods and people in and out of Russia, when Mark and a small team of 6's Double Os had burst in on the warehouse they were using as a staging area. Rob had scrambled into the catwalks of the warehouse and out into the night, but before escaping he'd risked a look down and seen Mark, clad in black, an SA80 held firmly in his hands. Even from a distance, Mark had looked…grim. Hard. So far from the smiling boy he'd met for the first time at MI6 HQ that it made Rob's chest ache.

Now, Rob was in a suite in a swank new hotel on the Baltic coast, facing down one of his masters, a thin-faced Russian tyrant who Rob always hated dealing with.

"Your friend is being troublesome," the Russian told him, looking extremely irritated to be dealing with another of Rob's recent failures.

Rob shrugged, because what could he say, and because he knew it was only a matter of time until his masters would declare his deal with them null and void and demand Mark's head on a gold platter. He knew by now that he would die to protect Markie, at Mark's own hand, if necessary. The scar on his arm from Mark's bullet was his pledge to himself to protect Mark at all costs. But he hoped it wouldn't come to that. Because if he was dead, there'd be no one at all to stop the RWBs from hunting Mark down. He didn't want to sacrifice himself only to have Mark killed by another of the RWBs' thugs.

The Russian arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing further about Mark. Instead, he said something Rob wasn't at all expecting.

"I've been told to send you back to London." He picked up the folder in front of him and threw it carelessly across the desk at Rob. "We need to talk to one of your old compatriots. We think you have the best chance of persuading him to come peacefully."

Rob felt a cold rush of dread across his scalp and down his back as he flipped open the file. He almost didn't recognize the picture inside it, a clean-shaven young man with piercing blue eyes wearing an SAS uniform. Then he realized it was an old picture of Howard, and the dread on his skin froze to ice.

"You won't be able to turn Howard," he said quickly. "He's not like me."

"Don't concern yourself about Sergeant Donald. All we want you to do is collect him from his flat and bring him to our London headquarters. You will not talk to him more than you have to, you will not tell him about your work for us. Am I clear?"

"Yeah." Rob reckoned he just about managed not to sound like a sullen teenager.

Rob and Nigel were smuggled into England in the noisy hold of a Latvian trawler, with much complaining from Nigel. They made their way from the coast to London in a clapped-out car supplied by the RWBs, and then Rob found himself lurking in the shadows outside Howard's block of flats, a hat making sure his face never appeared on one of the ever-present CCTV cameras that blanketed London's streets.

Worried as he was, Rob couldn't help feeling a leap of what almost felt like hope when he saw Howard approaching in the gloom of twilight. Howard had always meant safety to him. Howard had trained him, had shown him how to protect himself. And Howard was the one person who'd been able to make him laugh, even when the shadows had been closing around him the worst. A tiny part of his mind told him he should just give himself up to How, let the Queen's justice fall upon his head and be done with it all. But if he did that, then the RWBs would declare open season on Mark, and he couldn't allow that. So, he waited until Howard had passed him, then moved in and stuck his gun into Howard's back.

"Don't move," he said.

"You can have my wallet," Howard said, his voice totally calm. "And my phone, if you like. But don't take my Oyster card, yeah? I've just topped the fucker up."

Rob nearly laughed—how he'd missed this man—but instead he pushed the gun more sharply into Howard's back.

"I don't want your wallet or your phone. I need you to come with me."

Rob could see Howard's shoulders stiffen, and braced himself.

"Rob?" Howard said.

"Yeah. I'm not fucking about, How."

"No, I don't reckon you are," Howard said, his voice quiet. "You going to shoot me?"

"Not if you come with me." He pushed Howard in the direction of Nigel and their dodgy car, keeping his head down as they passed under a camera.

Rob half expected Howard to fight him, but he didn't. He calmly got into the back of the car, eyeing Rob warily as he got in beside him. Rob threw him a hood.

"You need to get that on and get on the floor."

Howard looked at the hood.

"Tell me this thing is clean," Howard said with a curled lip.

"Couldn't tell you. It came with the car."

"Brilliant," Howard said with a roll of his eyes, but he stuck the hood on his head and lay on the floor at Rob's feet. "I feel like a twat," Howard said.

"That's all right, then, because you look like one and all."

"You want to watch yourself, mate. I can rap you in the shins from down here."

It was almost like old times. Except for the part where he was kidnapping Howard. And Howard got quiet again after Nigel started the car moving in the direction of the RWBs' headquarters. He didn't speak for most of the trip, and when he finally did, Rob wished he hadn't.

"Mark's well."

"Good." Rob tried to keep his voice even.

"He hates your guts, though."

"He should."

"You don't hate him, though, do you?"

Rob looked down at Howard, curled up at his feet. The other man should have looked vulnerable, blindfolded, his considerable height folded awkwardly on the car's floor, but somehow he didn't. He looked…expectant.

"No, I don't," he finally answered.

"Hmmm," Howard said, and then was silent for the rest of the drive.

Nigel drove them to the mews behind the mansion the RWBs were currently using as their headquarters, and then Rob dragged Howard up and out of the car and guided him into the building. It was a mark of Howard's natural nimbleness that he only stumbled once.

When they were deep inside the house, away from any windows, Rob finally removed the hood from Howard's head.

"Thanks," Howard said, and gave Rob a wry smile.

"Don't thank me," Rob said, and then guided him down one last corridor to one final door, guarded by a bloke who was far more massive than either Rob or Howard.

"You, go in." The guard pointed at Howard. "You, wait here," the guard told Rob.

Howard hesitated.

"You all right, Rob?" Howard asked, and wasn't that just like him, trying to look after the man who'd just kidnapped him.

"Yeah," Rob said. It was a lie, of course, but even if he'd told the truth, there was nothing either of them could do about it. "You go on." He tipped his chin towards the door. Howard frowned, but he disappeared through the door.

Rob watched him go, then leaned against the wall and stuck his hands in his pockets. He couldn't resist giving the guard a wink he knew would annoy him as settled in to wait for Howard, hiding his worry behind his usual cheek.

Howard appeared ten minutes later, his jaw clenched, his face drained of all colour. Worst of all, he wouldn't even look at Rob.

The return trip was the same in reverse, with the hood and Howard lying on the floor of the car at Rob's feet. But this time, Howard didn't say a word, and Rob could feel the tension radiating from him.

Nigel stopped the car a few streets from Howard's building. Rob should have just pulled the hood off his head, kicked him out of the car, and been done with it, but instead, he got out of the car with Howard and walked a few steps with him, far enough away from the car that he could be sure Nigel couldn't hear him.

"What did they say to you, How?"

Howard's shoulders tensed up even more than they had already, and he finally met Rob's gaze. The expression in his eyes—fear and determination and revulsion—did nothing to comfort the panic that was beginning to surge through Rob's body.

Howard didn't speak. Instead, he turned from Rob with a wrench and jogged away, leaving Rob stood on the pavement, feeling like he was witnessing the beginning of the end of his world.

* * *

Howard ran from Rob, his pace increasing from a jog to a panicked sprint by the time he reach the front door of his building. Once inside, he pushed the button for the lift, and when it didn't come soon enough, made a mad final dash up the stairs, all the way to his second floor flat. 

He struggled to unlock the door, his hands shaking so badly he nearly couldn't get the key in the lock, turned off the security system, threw the door shut, and then collapsed on the floor behind it, trembling.

"Shit, shit, shit," he gasped out, leaning his forehead against his knees as he clutched his legs against his chest.

He was fucked. Absolutely fucked. And there was no one he could talk to. This time he couldn't go to Jason, not for comfort or advice.

He'd known he was in trouble of the worst kind when he'd walked into that room—all dark polished wood and expensive leather—and seen Rob's boss sitting behind that bloody great desk.

"Sergeant Donald, so pleased you could join us." The man had had a posh accent and a snotty expression. "Sit down, won't you?" He gestured at the leather chair across from him.

"No, thanks," Howard said, moving automatically into parade rest, pretending he was being called up in front of one of the useless upper-class twat officers he'd occasionally got saddled with in the Regiment. He'd used his height to intimidate those bastards when he could. He wasn't going to surrender that admittedly slight advantage to this Hooray Henry.

Henry didn't force the point, merely raised an eyebrow before he spoke again.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I had your friend bring you for a little chat."

"Rob ain't my friend," Howard shot out.

There was another raised eyebrow, this time with more than a hint of anger behind it.

"Your acquaintance, then." Henry puffed himself up, exactly like every other petty tyrant Howard had had to deal with in his life. "I had him bring you here because my associates and I have a proposition for you."

"I'm not interested. Can I go now?"

"I think you'll be very interested." Henry leaned forward and folded his hand in front of him. "You see, a friend of yours—this one is a friend, I assure you—has been causing us some difficulties, and we're hoping you can help us out."

"You can fuck off and all," Howard said. In his experience, that sort of language usually flustered bastards like this one, men who'd gone to all the right schools. But Henry didn't react, didn't flinch at all. The only thing he did was smile.

"When you hear my proposition, I think you're going to want to be a bit more polite, Sergeant Donald." Henry emphasized Howard's title, and not in a way conveyed respect of any sort. "You see your friend—a certain Mr Mark Owen—in the course of pursuing a vendetta against your…acquaintance, Mr Williams, has been disrupting our business. We want him stopped."

"Mark won't stop what he's doing. Not even if I ask him nicely. Which I won't."

"Oh, we don't want you to ask him to stop what he's doing. We know that would be futile. We want you to kill him."

Howard felt the world stop around him, felt the breath catch in his chest. They wanted him to kill Mark?

"Not bloody likely," Howard said, keeping his gaze steadily directed at Henry. 

"It's entirely likely," Henry said, an infuriating smile play around his lips. "You see, we have a little incentive to offer you. You kill Mr Owen, and we won't kill another friend of yours." Henry paused, and smiled fully, all his teeth showing. "Mr Orange."

This time, Howard felt like all the oxygen had left the room. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, felt his legs tremble. But he wasn't going to show any weakness to this bastard. He needed to play for time, to figure out some way out of this mess. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to take a deep breath before he spoke.

"Why me? You must have some other paid thugs to do the job. Why risk asking me?"

"Because…" Henry sighed wearily, "unfortunately we have assured Mr Williams that we will not harm Mr Owen, and for the moment we find Mr Williams useful."

Howard felt like he'd had a dagger drilled through his guts. Rob was protecting Mark from these bastards. If that was true, what else was Rob doing?

"But if Mr Owen were to meet his end in some way that could not be laid at our door—an accident, perhaps, or a case of friendly fire—well, then we could keep Mr Williams contentedly under our control."

"Rob doesn't look too content to me." Rob looked fucking awful. Howard felt everything he thought he'd known about the past year and a half, about what Rob had done and why, begin to shift around him.

"He does his job," Henry snapped out, his expression suddenly ugly. "That's all that really matters." He stopped and took a breath himself, and Howard could see him force a falsely pleasant expression on his face. "Do we have your agreement?"

"What if I say no?" Howard was pretty sure he knew the answer to that question, but he had to ask it.

"I'm sure you'll appreciate that in that case, we would have you...liquidated."

"And Jason?" It would be worth his own life to save Jason.

"Mr Orange wouldn't survive you by long."

"Fuck," Howard muttered under his breath.

"Do I take it you accept our proposal?"

"Don't have much choice, do I?"

"Excellent." The smug bastard flashed him a smile full of pleasure. "You are of course free to use your own methods, but we have a little surprise planned for Mr Owen in Amsterdam in two weeks that you may find useful. The details are here." Howard took the proffered envelope and stuck it into his jacket pocket without opening it. 

"We'll expect results by Amsterdam. I'm sure that will be more than sufficient time, given your talents."

Howard was ushered out before he could say anything more, his head buzzing at the horror of what he'd been asked to do. 

Rob was waiting in the hall, and Howard couldn't meet his eyes, couldn't speak to him at all, not knowing what he did, not knowing what he had to do. It was almost a relief when Rob threw him the damned hood again and led him back to the car.

Now here he was, sitting on the floor of his flat, concentrating on taking one breath at a time, and cursing all the decisions that had brought him to face this terrible choice: kill a friend or see the man he loved killed instead. 

He wished he could tell someone. Jason. M. Even Mark. Wished he could leave it to someone else to come up with a plan to defeat that bloody Hooray Henry and his fucking proposition. But he'd seen how posh that bastard's place had been. A place like that came with money and power, enough power to carry through on a threat to kill MI6's Quartermaster. Enough power to turn one Double O agent, and have another killed. Enough power to crush a retired Sergeant of the SAS and everyone he knew and loved.

He drew in a shuddering breath and pushed himself to his feet, every horrible thing he'd done, every horrible thing he'd seen in the Regiment rushing back at him, threatening to knock him back to the ground again.

He wasn't going to survive this, wasn't even sure if he wanted to. Killing a colleague, a friend, killing fucking Markie was the worst thing he could think of, but if it meant saving Jason, he'd do it.

He pulled the now crumpled envelope from his jacket pocket, headed for the kitchen, poured himself a large glass of vodka, and began making plans.

He'd never been good at strategy. Long-term thinking, that was for bigger brains than he had. But a boots-on-the-ground, what-the-fuck-do-we-do-now sort of scheme, maybe he could come up with one of those. And maybe, just maybe he'd manage to survive it.

* * *

"You want to what?" M couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"I didn't know you were deaf," Donald threw back at him.

"And I didn't know you were thick." It was a low blow, but M didn't care. He didn't like to see his people behaving like idiots. 

"I'm not thick." M could see Donald bristle with defensiveness. "I just want to do my job as best I can."

"You won't be able to do your job at all if you end up in the loony bin."

"I won't. It's not like I'm asking to go fully operational."

"But you are asking to go out in the field?"

"Yeah. But only as backup."

"That's still in the field. You know as well as I do how fast an op can go pear-shaped."

"That's exactly why I want to go."

M stopped, took a breath, and gave Donald a look that he hoped conveyed exactly how mental he thought his weapons trainer was acting. Donald's next words told him he'd been successful.

"I'm not mental." Donald crossed his arms and stuck his chin out.

M raised an eyebrow.

"I'm _not_ ," Donald insisted. "Look, why did you hire me in the first place?"

"Because you're a bloody genius with weapons."

"And that's because I'd been in the field. The longer I'm out of the field, the more my weapons skills slip. And you only want someone teaching your people whose skills are the best."

"You may have a point," M allowed. M got worried when his people started making sense. It always made him wonder if they were right, or if he was as mental as they were. "But you're still not going operational."

"Why?" Donald looked as exasperated as he sounded. "You said I have a point."

"Because Q will have my guts for garters if anything happens to you."

Donald froze in place, and for a few brief seconds M couldn't read the expression on his face at all. Was it shock? Frustration? Or was it horror? 

But before he could decide what he was seeing, the expression was gone and Donald was just looking pissed off.

"You let me worry about Q."

"I worry about all of you. All the time. That's my job." Which was entirely true. And if he worried about some of his people more than others, there was no one to know that.

"Training your agents is my job. And I'll do it better if you let me go into the field for a month."

M looked at Donald and finally realized that this was the first argument he'd ever had with the man. Any suggestion Donald had made had always been sensible, and the man had always followed any orders M had given him. But this time…this time his gut was telling him that this was a flipping stupid idea.

Then again, he'd never quite trusted people who said they always followed their gut.

"Jesus," M said softly, then looked over at Donald. "Are you absolutely sure you need to do this?"

"Yeah." And Donald did look determined.

"All right, then."

"All right?" Donald looked almost shocked.

"All right. Look, how did you want to do this? Did you have someone in mind?"

"A Double O," Donald said.

"A Double O?" M began to see a whole host of new ways this could go spectacularly wrong.

"Yeah. I was thinking Owen."

"Owen?" M held himself very still, trying not to react to the very loud warning bells going off in his head. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Donald was trying to look completely indifferent, but M could see how his attention had honed in, as if trying to judge M's reaction. 

M was suddenly very willing to listen to his gut.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," M said, as calmly as he could. "Do you?"

"Why not? Owen's a good agent. The best. I'd think you'd want me to work with the best." Donald was making a game try at convincing M that there was nothing odd in his choice of Owen, but he was a terrible liar. His eyes were darting all over the place, his voice had a slight tremor, and he was swallowing just a little too often.

"This is about more than you working with the best agent. And more than you getting operational experience. Isn't it?"

M held Donald with a steady gaze. He wasn't quite sure what he'd expected. That Donald would crumple and confess his sins? That he'd make a break for it? 

The reality was far less dramatic. As he watched, Donald clenched his jaw, shook out his shoulders, and then began to speak.

"Yeah, all right. You've got me. I mean, it really is about me getting into the field. It's bound to sharpen up my skills again. But as soon as I got the idea, I started thinking about how it might be a good way to put eyes on Mark. Make sure he's doing okay." He gave M a weak smile. "I’m worried about the little bastard. But if you want to put me with another agent…"

Donald left the offer hanging, and M considered his options. He could deny this scheme entirely. He could approve Donald's request and put him with another agent. (003 was as steady a hand as they had in the Double 0s.)

Or he could approve Donald's plan entirely, and make him 009's backup for a few weeks.

 _Madness_ , his gut screamed at him.

 _Interesting_ , his head offered.

Because Donald wasn't the only one worried about "the little bastard." As efficient as Owen had been at dismantling the criminal network Varoshi had put them onto, M could still sometimes glimpse the fragile boy he'd been after Williams had shot him.

But there was one thing he wanted to know before he put his seal of approval on this folly.

"Is Q in on this grand scheme?" 

"Christ, no." Donald looked more than a little horrified.

"I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse." Q having vetted Donald's plans would have at least meant they'd been gone over by what passed for a responsible adult in MI6.

"Does that mean I can do it, or not?"

"Yes, you can do it." Donald beamed at him. "But you're going to be the one to tell Q what your plans are." He was sure he didn't want to be the one to tell his Quartermaster what his boyfriend was about to do.

"Thanks for that." Donald gave him a sour look. 

"I'll tell Owen he's going to have a babysitter."

"Don't tell him that!"

"I won't use quite those words, but I'm sure he'll realize what you're up to."

"I'm not up to anything, me." Donald didn't do the innocent look particularly well.

"Keep telling yourself that, Sergeant. You'll receive the details of 009's next assignment by tomorrow. Dismissed."

Donald threw him a sloppy salute that M was quite sure he'd never have got away with in the Regiment, and left M to sort out the chaos he'd left in his wake.

He hit his intercom button.

"Moneypenny, please have 009 report to my office."

He might as well get this over with.

* * *

Mark was sat on the floor of his lounge, legs crossed, hands on his knees, taking long deep breaths. He looked at the lit candle in front of him, concentrating on its flame.

There was nothing in the room to distract him. When he'd moved here after Rob, after the rehab centre, he'd taken nothing with him of his old life, none of the books or paintings or hangings or decorations that had given life to his previous home.

This flat was all stark white walls and plain wooden furniture, the home of the ascetic Mark aspired to be. No one who'd seen his old place with its riot of colour would have guessed it belonged to the same person. Not that anyone else had been here. It had seen no guests: he'd brought no friends here for a meal, no lovers here for a kind word or a fuck. In fact, he'd had no other lovers since Rob. Rob's were the last lips he'd kissed, Rob's body the last he'd touched with any tenderness. This place had been his hermit's cell, where he came to calm his thoughts. Or to try to, anyway.

This night his thoughts were a churning surf. Each breath he took brought chaos instead of calm. 

He was no stranger to chaos. There were times enough when he wanted nothing more than to strike down Rob, to beat him with his fists until they were both bloody and raw. And other times he only wanted to weep for the not-entirely-innocent boys they had once been.

Best were the times when he was numb. If he was numb he could do his job, could take Rob alive like he'd promised M. 

Except now it seemed that M didn't trust him.

Because why else would M have assigned Howard to work as his backup for the next month? M's official reason was that Howard wanted to refresh his field skills, but he hadn't been very convincing. So, it must be that M didn't trust him. Or Howard didn't.

Or, worse yet, maybe they wanted to _help_ him. 

He hoped to Christ it wasn't that. He didn't want help. He was beyond help. If anyone tried to help him, they'd be dragged down into the crashing waves that were always waiting to drown him. He didn't want that for anyone he'd called a friend. Especially not Howard.

He was still more than a little embarrassed that he'd confessed how scared he'd been to Howard after Albania. He hadn't made that mistake again. He'd kept his fear to himself ever since. 

Whenever he'd accepted a dinner invitation from Jason and Howard, he kept conversation away from work, away from his hunt for Rob, away from all the dark things he'd done. He wasn't so deluded that he thought they didn't know what he was going through, but he didn't want to burden them with the details. Rob was a problem he wanted no help in solving.

He took a deep breath, held it for a count of seven, and released it slowly. He willed all his turmoil to leave with the air from his lungs, but his thoughts still roiled.

"Shit."

At this rate he'd never get to sleep.

He blew out the candle and pushed himself to his feet, stretching as he went.

He moved into the bedroom, pulled on his running gear, laced up his trainers, and made sure the gun in its holster at his back was secure and hidden. He never listened to music while he ran, and he never ran unarmed. There were too many people in the world who would kill him if they found him unarmed and inattentive.

Locking up the flat, he moved down the stairs and into the night-quiet streets of Wandsworth, hoping exhaustion would finally silence his thoughts so he could sleep at last.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard's trapped by circumstances, Jason's worried, and Mark doesn't know what's about to hit him.

When Howard told me about the scheme he and M had cooked up, I couldn't quite believe it.

"You're what?!"

"I've already told you three times, Jay. I'm not going to tell you again."

"You're going to have to, because I don't understand." I got up and started pacing around my lounge. "I don't understand why you'd put yourself in harm's way again. Not when you know what it does to you."

"It'll be all right." 

"No it won't!" I realized I was yelling, and took a deep breath. "No, it won't," I repeated, more quietly, if not more calmly. "I've seen how you get. I saw you in the hospital after Mark was shot. I've seen your nightmares. It won't be all right!" I was shouting again, and I didn't care.

"It will, Jay." Howard wasn't shouting. He was still and quiet and looking more determined than I'd ever seen him. "I'll just be backup."

"If you're just backup, then why go?"

"I'm getting stale. I need to get back in the field so I can do my job properly."

"Is that what M told you?"

"It's what I told M."

I froze where I stood, torn in a dozen different directions. I wanted to scream, to cry, to kick the wall in. I wanted to hit Howard. I wanted to track down M and ask him what sort of an idiot he was, agreeing to Howard's mad plan. I wanted to run and to keep running until I was as far away as I could get from the man who seemed determined to break my heart.

In the end, I walked away. Howard found me a few minutes later, sitting on my bed in the dark, my head clutched in my hands. I felt the bed dip as he sat beside me. He was only inches away, and yet there'd never been a wider gulf between us.

"Don't do it, How." I didn't look up, and now that the storm had blown through me my voice was soft.

"I have to."

"Your job's not worth it." 

Howard's breath caught in his throat for a second before he answered.

"This is worth it, Jay."

He reached over and took hold of my hand. For a moment I let him, concentrating on the roughness and heat of his skin. But then I could stand it no longer and I pulled my hand slowly away from him.

"I need you to leave," I said without looking at him, surprised at how steady my voice sounded. 

"Jay—"

"I need you to leave. Now." I closed my eyes tightly and hugged my arms around myself. 

I heard what might have been a choked-off sob, and then nothing. Finally, the bed shifted once more and I heard Howard's footsteps leaving the room.

I stayed frozen in place until I heard the door of the flat close after him. Only then, when I was sure I was completely alone, did I slide to the floor, all strength gone. I finally fell asleep in a huddle on my bedroom rug and woke up cold and sore as the light of a thin and wintery dawn was breaking into the room.

I slowly rose up, stripped off my clothes, and then stood in the shower, letting the hot water ease my sore muscles and wash the salt off my face.

As I pulled on my clothes, the wretchedness I was feeling was replaced by anger. I let that anger pull me into work, and draw me from my lab to the upper reaches of the building where M could be found.

"He's not seeing anyone," Moneypenny said as I charged into her domain, but I ignored her and pushed into M's office.

M was facing away from me when I stormed in, looking out the window onto the Thames.

"I thought I told you I wasn't to be disturbed," M said, and turned. When he saw me, his expression froze, and his cheeks went pink. "Q."

"Why?" I asked before he could say anything else.

"Because it makes sense." M straightened his shoulders and straightened his cuffs. 

"How does sending a man with PTSD back into the field make any sort of sense?" I'd never named what Howard suffered from before--I didn't want to label him, didn't want to stop concentrating on what made him Howard as opposed to what the doctors said he had—but it seemed the only way to make M realize how mad this plan was.

"Sergeant Donald assures me he will be fine, and I have sign off from the medical section. I did check with medical, Q. I'm not a complete idiot, whatever you may think of me at the moment."

"I think you're all idiots," I shot back, wondering what the medical was playing at, certifying Howard for the field.

"It will be fine," M said, ignoring my outburst. "I'll choose Owen's assignments carefully. Make sure they're low risk. And it'll be a good thing, having someone look out for Owen."

"Look out for Owen?" I choked out.

"It was Donald's suggestion, that he 'put eyes on Mark.' And I thought it was a good one. Owen is a stellar agent, the best, but there's a brittleness to his strength. And brittle things tend to break." As he spoke, M warmed up to his subject. His wariness disappeared and his natural confidence came to the fore.

"There's only one thing you haven't considered," I said. 

"What's that?"

"Mark might break, but Howard's already broken."

I didn't even wait to see if my barb hit its target, just stormed out of M's office and back to my lab. Where I managed to shatter every piece of equipment I worked on that day, until my people finally intervened.

"You should go home, sir," Kendall insisted, taking a broken watch out of my hand. I'd managed to smash its crystal while I was trying to add a signal tracker to it.

I took a breath, ready to argue with her, and then looked up to find all of my staff surrounding my workbench.

"You should go home," Kendall said again. "You can't look after Sergeant Donald if you aren't looking after yourself."

I gave in at that. Mostly because I didn't want to explain that I wouldn't be looking after Howard anymore. Didn't want to admit that I wasn't looking after myself, either. But I did go home, made too many cups of green tea, and spent a sleepless night sprawled on my sofa watching as the night sky gradually lightened into dawn. Not what Kendall had in mind, I'm sure, but it was all I was good for. In the morning, I went in to work, did my best not to break anything, and tried not to think about Howard, not to talk about Howard, and definitely not to look for Howard in headquarters.

For two weeks I did my best to avoid him. And all that time I felt like I'd had a vital organ gouged out of my body. I had to control the shaking of my hands every time someone mentioned his name, every time I caught a glimpse of him in the hallways of MI6, every time I heard he was out in the field with Mark.

M kept his word, at least. Owen was sent on extremely easy ops, the sort of thing they'd usually use a junior agent for: checking a dead drop; meeting a courier. The only danger on those sorts of assignments was usually boredom. But as far as I was concerned, being on any assignment with Mark was dangerous. Mark had targeted powerful men. I had no doubt that they were targeting him in return. And even less doubt that if anyone went after Mark, Howard would put himself in the line of fire.

My worry for Howard ratcheted up, until I was walking past two other Double 0s and heard them say "Owen" and "Amsterdam" and "tomorrow."

Knowing Howard would be out in the field, knowing where he'd be, made my breath catch in my throat, made my heart hammer in my chest. Two weeks of resolution to avoid him faded, and I knew I had to see him before he left.

I found him in the weapons range. The place had been locked down while Howard was working with Mark, but I noticed a light coming from the back of the room and pushed the door open.

The range was usually full of the chattering of trainees and the boom of firing weapons, but now it was dead silent. I moved inside, past the observation room, past the weapons lock-up, all the way back to the last firing station where a single light bulb shone.

I found Howard there, sitting against the back wall, hands resting lightly on his raised knees, his eyes staring at the target in front of him.

"How," I said, not enjoying the way he startled or the wariness that shuttered his eyes when he recognized me.

I held out my hand, and waited until he finally grabbed it and then pulled him to his feet. I held his hand as I looked at him, taking in every inch of him.

"Oh, How," I said, and then pulled him towards me. I held him tighter than I'd ever held him before, wishing that I never had to let him go. But I had to let him go eventually. But as I started to release him, I leaned in close to his ear.

"Be safe," I whispered. "Please."

Howard shuddered him my arms, and tugged away from me.

"I've gotta go, Jay," he said. He grabbed a small rucksack from the floor, and was out of the room before I could say anything.

I didn't go home that night. I meandered along the Thames and through the warrens of Limehouse and Southwark for hours, hands in my pockets, thinking only of Howard. I kept seeing the tired bruises under his eyes, kept feeling the way his hand had trembled in mine, and I was more afraid for him than ever. This was not about Howard logging more field experience, and I didn't think it was even about him putting eyes on Mark. But I didn't know what it _was_ about, and that was flippin' terrifying.

By the time the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, I had ended up in Greenwich. I watched the sun as it crested the horizon and glittered dully in the Thames' waters. As the city awoke around me, I had a moment's epiphany.

I didn't know if it would work, if it would be enough, but I knew what I had to do.

I headed for Greenwich station and boarded the next train for Waterloo. I was back at headquarters before rush hour really started, and I was waiting at my lab bench when Mark arrived with his equipment list for the assignment I knew was sending him and Howard to Amsterdam.

I'd made a point of steering clear of Mark the last few times he'd come to the lab, but this time I waved him over. He shot me a nervous smile and then avoided looking at me as I put together his equipment for him. It was a small list: a digital recorder, a tracker, two earpieces, and a sniper rifle I assumed was for Howard. Howard hadn't set foot in the lab since he'd left my flat two weeks before.

Mark was slinging the rifle case over his shoulder and getting ready to leave when I grabbed his wrist. He tried to pull away from my grip, but I held him tight, and for the first time since he'd come into the lab, he looked me in the eye.

"I need to ask a favour of you, Mark."

"What's that?" Mark's expression was wary. Gone were the days when we'd have agreed to anything for each other.

"I need you to look after Howard." I reached forward with my free hand and squeezed his shoulder. "Please."

Every muscle in Mark's body stiffened, but he didn't look away. He examined me closely, in much the way I imagine he would look at any asset, judging his worth. Then, as if he'd made a decision, I felt him relax under my hands.

"I look after How on every assignment, Jason," he said.

I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him that he didn't understand how much protection Howard needed, but then I saw his eyes soften and fill with a terrifying awareness. I realized then that I wasn't the only one who knew how broken Howard was.

"Thank you," I said, then pulled away from him, ever-so-slightly embarrassed at the vulnerability we both seemed to have showed.

"I'll bring him home, Jay." He patted my arm, adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, and then he was gone.

I only wished I didn't have an extremely bad feeling about this assignment.

* * *

It was dusk when they reached the location, a single-crane container terminal stuck on the front of an abandoned brick building with two ornate towers. The container crane was sticking out of the front of the old building, a giant, yellow metal skeleton jutting out of the old brick bones. There was a small marina on the canal beside the terminal with ten or twenty small sailboats tied up on its slips, but at the moment the terminal itself was quiet. There was no barge in front of it, and only a few containers stacked on its dock.

"This used to be a flourmill," Mark said as they approached. "De Vrede, they called it. 'The Peace.'"

"Why the fuck would you call a flourmill The Peace?" Howard asked as they both scanned the area for activity, friendly or not. He looked up at the building looming over them, its windows either boarded up or broken and shattered. "It don't look very peaceful."

"Oh, I don't know." Mark looked up at the main tower they were standing under. "It's quaint."

"Quaint for early industrial fascist, you mean." Howard shifted the rifle case on his shoulder and looked for a way into the brick building. He knew there had to be one. The files Robbie's Hooray Henry boss had given him had said there'd be one. And at the top of the tallest of the old mill's two towers there was a rifle waiting for him, a weapon with no registration, no history, no way to be traced. A weapon he'd been ordered to use to murder Mark.

His hand convulsed on the strap of his own rifle case, the weapon he was meant to use to defend Mark, not kill him.

Christ, how had he come to this?

He'd spent the last two weeks trying to find a way out of this mess and he hadn't come up with a fucking thing. And when he'd think that maybe he should just grab Jason and run, he'd get a reminder that these bastards were watching them both. Once, it had been the transcript of a conversation he and Mark had held on a secure MI6 line, a warning that the bastards could listen in on anything. This morning it had been an envelope slipped under the door of his flat. It had held a picture of Jason in the tube, wearing his favourite, rather frayed topcoat and the sweater Howard had seen him in last night. Someone had scrawled "Tick tock, Sergeant Donald" on the picture in thick black ink.

His time was up, and he had to do what they wanted. He had to kill Mark. Today. Now.

"You all right, How?"

Mark put a hand on his shoulder, and Howard tried not to flinch at the touch.

"Yeah," he said, trying to sound convincing.

"Really? Because you don't look well." Mark frowned as he looked at him. "You're not coming down with something? Because we can scrub this mission. It's not that important."

He nearly broke then, nearly let Mark scrub the mission, nearly told Mark what he'd been asked to do. Nearly broke, but didn't. Because if he did, the nightmare he'd had every night for the last two weeks would come true. Jason would die, and his blood would be on Howard's hands.

"Not important?" Howard heard himself saying. "The bloke we're meant to meet says he's got information about Rob. You've been after Rob for ages."

"Yeah," Mark said, rubbing his hands together and looking across the canal, his eyes sweeping the area for threats. "But I don't like this set up. It feels wrong."

 _It is wrong_ , Howard wanted to shout, but he couldn't. Not without dooming Jason.

"You're just being an old woman." He fiddled with the rifle case so he wouldn't have to look Mark in the eye, making a show of checking his ammunition.

"I'm _not_ ," Mark insisted.

"You are." He had to keep Mark distracted, keep him from looking at him with concern. Because given what he had to do, concern from Mark was going to gut him. "Listen, De Vrede here is the highest ground." He pointed at the old mill behind him. "I'm going to try and get in. Set up an observation post. I'll make sure nothing's wrong."

"Okay, How. But you take care. That place doesn't look any too safe." Mark patted him on the arm before he turned back to the canal. "Mind you put your earpiece in," he called back as Howard headed toward the mill.

"My mum isn't as protective as you," Howard grumbled because he knew Mark would expect it.

He worked his way around the outside of the mill, and soon had wrenched open a boarded-up door and stepped inside. It was dark in the mill, the only light filtered in from scattered broken windows. The floor was scattered with broken bits of equipment and furniture. 

On his own, the gloom and the silence of the place started to overwhelm him, and he collapsed to his knees. His stomach heaved in revulsion at what he had to do, but the only thing his retching brought up was a thin trickle of green. He'd thrown up everything inside him last night after leaving Jason on the weapons range, and today he hadn't been able to eat at all.

"Shit." He pushed himself back to his feet. He couldn't stop now; he couldn't fail Jason.

"Earpiece, How," he heard Mark shout from outside. He scrambled to find it, then quickly stuck his earpiece in, and tapped it on.

"I'm here," he said, hearing the slight static hum that told him the device was working properly as he tried to calm his breathing.

"Good." Mark's voice came through his ear. "Let me know when you're in position. I'll bring London in when you're set."

"Affirmative," Howard said. He wiped his arm across his mouth, picked up his rifle case with shaking hands, and made his way to the tower's stairs.

The building might have been derelict, but the stairs were made of good strong timbers and held firmly under his feet. It was five floors up and then four more flights to the top of the tower, where he found a second rifle case waiting for him on a landing. This case held an HK417and two boxes of ammunition.

He checked the rifle over, made sure the barrel was clear, and loaded it, finding what calm he could in the rituals of his trade.

When he was satisfied with the weapon, he made his way to the window, clearing out the broken glass on the floor so he could kneel in position. The sun had completely set, its light almost completely gone, but he could still see Mark, a small, vulnerable shadow at the water's edge.

"In position," he said, his mouth going dry at the thought of what he was about to do.

"London, we're in position," Mark said. "No sign of our contact so far."

"Stay alert and in touch, 009," M said in Howard's ear. Howard clenched his jaw and blinked back the stinging in his eyes, not wanting M to hear his betrayal.

"Affirmative," Mark said.

Howard could see him put his hands in his pockets and raise his shoulders against the cold even as he scanned the canal for any sign of danger.

 _The danger's up here_ , Howard thought, even as he looked through the rifle's scope, lining up Mark in its crosshairs.

He tried to pretend the silhouette in his sights wasn't Mark, was some anonymous target he'd never met, but that didn't help. By the time he'd left the Regiment, he hadn't been able to shoot anything but paper targets. But he had to shoot Mark. Had to do it or Jason would die.

He worked at slowing his breathing, at ignoring the hammering of his heart in his chest. When he thought he was still enough to do what he had to, he moved his finger into position over the trigger.

"I'm sorry, Mark," he whispered, then took a deep breath and began to increase the pressure on the trigger.

* * *

Before he'd nabbed Howard, Rob's only ambition, besides keeping Mark safe, had been getting away from Nigel and the RWBs and getting as drunk and as high as possible. After he'd dragged Howard into his shadow world, though, he'd found he wanted to stay completely stone cold sober. The game had undergone an elemental shift and he didn't want to miss the one thing that would save Mark's life because he was pissed or fucked up. 

For nearly two weeks he became a model operative in the RWBs' organization. He did everything he was asked, he didn't talk back, he didn't escape from Nigel's clutches once, and he avoided any booze and drugs that came his way. And he listened. And he watched. 

His efforts paid off, in the most horrible way.

Two weeks' good behaviour seemed to have erased the RWBs memories of all Rob's past transgressions and past loyalties. Hints were dropped about an upcoming operation that would improve their fortunes. 009 was mentioned several times and so was Amsterdam. Rob was inwardly more fearful than ever, but outwardly more respectful. And that finally got him what he needed.

He'd been allowed to stay in England, to do a couple of jobs where local knowledge would help and it was unlikely he'd be recognized. With those successfully completed, the head RWB in London had called him into his posh office to offer him thanks for a job well done. When he'd arrived, the head RWB's secretary told him their boss had been caught in traffic and would be fifteen minutes late, and would Rob mind waiting in the office. They'd always let Rob stew in the hallway before, so he nodded politely, and the secretary led him into the office and gave him a glass of the good Russian vodka. Rob left the vodka untouched on the desk in front of him, waited for the secretary to leave, and then began to systematically, carefully, and quietly search the office for a clue as to what was going on.

He found it in the third drawer he checked, in a plain folder marked "Amsterdam." 

The plan inside was simple and horrible. Sergeant Howard Donald had been blackmailed—by unspecified means, though Rob could make a good guess as to what they were—into assassinating MI6's Agent 009. A fake informer had been created to draw 009 and Donald to an old industrial site in Amsterdam, where Donald was to gun down his colleague.

That plan made sense of everything: of Howard's kidnapping and the look on his face when Rob had dropped him in his neighbourhood, of the occasional curious looks he'd get from others in the RWB organization, and of the sense of optimism he'd been sensing from his masters.

He quickly memorized the plan's details and replaced it in the drawer. His boss finally arrived five minutes later, and that five minutes tested all of Rob's resolve not to down the vodka in front of him and all the rest of the alcohol in the office besides. He sat through praise from this man he despised, smiled in all the right places, and laughed at all the right jokes. And after his allotted fifteen minutes, he shook the RWB's hand, pledged his loyalty to his employers, and was on his way out the door.

Half an hour later, he slipped the leash. He didn't even bother to return to the rather posh flat he'd been sharing with Nigel. Instead, he took the tube into Peckham to find some dodgy mates he'd known when he'd still been with MI6. They got him the gear he needed, and found him a boat going to the continent that was as keen on avoiding customs officers and security services as he was. By sunrise, he was in France. By the afternoon, he was in Amsterdam, courtesy of a stolen Renault.

He made his way to the address from the folder, an abandoned mill that had been kitted out to take containers off barges, parked the car five minutes away, and found a corner of a marina deserted for the season, where he could keep an eye on the mill.

The first sign of movement he saw was another one of the RWB's paid thugs, a bloke he'd had to work with in the past. Rob reckoned he'd been sent to make sure things went as planned.

The thug was a nasty piece of work, but he wasn't expecting trouble yet, and Rob took him out easily. The canal swallowed his work, and the world was a better place without that bastard in it.

He took his place by the marina again and waited. At dusk, his patience was rewarded.

Howard looked the same as he had two weeks ago, but Rob nearly didn't recognize Mark. He was leaner than ever, and dressed all in black denim and leather. He looked hard. Fuck that, he _was_ hard. Rob had gone up against him enough times in the last few months to know how tough Mark had become.

But Rob could still see his Markie under the black leather and the hard expression. He could still see the boy he'd fallen in love with. The boy he still loved. He wished things were different, that he could wave them both over and give Mark a hug and pat Howard on the back and they could all go off to a pub for a pint. But things weren't different, and he was going to have to play this very carefully or they were all going to end up dead.

He watched as Howard and Mark checked the surroundings for threats, though not quite so well that they found his hiding place. Then Howard found a way into the mill and disappeared. Rob waited until he heard Mark yell "Earpiece, How," and then slipped his own earpiece in. One tap, and, courtesy of the RWBs' tech boffin, he could hear both Mark and Howard, their words, their breathing. The temptation to talk to them was great, but he held back. He waited until Howard said he was in position, until Mark's attention was directed at the canal, and then he worked his way into the mill through a back entrance and began to climb the tower, hoping all the while he wouldn't be too late.

When he reached the last two flights of stairs, he could hear Howard moving above him, the soft crunch of debris under him, the click as he threw the bolt on his rifle. He forced himself to slow down, and pulled out his pistol. In his other hand, he gripped the device he'd bought from his dodgy mates in Peckham, ready to activate it, the thing that had cost him more than the gun and the earpiece and the ride to France combined.

"Just hit that button and it'll block all communications frequencies anyone uses and a few that no one bothers with," Jezza had told him. "But its battery will only last ten minutes, so use it wisely."

He was going to have to use it now, wisely or not.

He continued up the stairs, doing his best to control his breathing, stopping when he reached the landing where Howard kneeled, his back to Rob, his rifle aimed below.

"I'm sorry, Mark," Howard whispered. Rob heard the words both in his earpiece and in the room, and he knew he had to act now.

He fired his weapon, putting a bullet into the window frame beside Howard's head just as Howard pulled the trigger on his weapon, the two shots coming so close together they sounded like one.

"Howard!" Mark shouted, Rob's proof that Howard's shot had gone wide. "What the-" Mark was silenced as Rob hit the button on his gadget and blocked the earpieces. He imagined the panic he was causing for Mark, and for London, as he faced down Howard.

"Rob?" Howard said, his rifle still held in his hands, though no longer aimed at Mark, or anyone, his expression confused. 

Howard was still a danger, still had to be stopped, but Rob didn't want to do that with a bullet. He didn't want to shoot another friend. So he threw down his pistol and the radio blocker, and charged Howard before the other man could shoot him.

Howard went down hard, the rifle clattering away from him. Rob straddled him and immediately went at him with fists and elbows. He didn't want to kill Howard, but it would be easier if he could knock him out. Howard, however, had his hands up, protecting his head, and Rob was left with ribs and belly as his targets.

Howard grabbed Rob, and rolled on top of him, but Rob kept rolling until he was once again the one on top. 

Rob felt panic rise inside him and let that drive his blows. He might have a weight advantage on Howard, but Howard had always beaten him in sparring matches. Always. And Rob couldn't allow that. If he lost now, then Mark was dead.

He twisted in Howard's grasp, getting a knee in Howard's ribs even as How struck a stinging blow to the side of his head. He held on, twisting one of Howard's arms behind him, and finally got him in a strong headlock, one that Howard had no way of breaking.

"Rob, no," Howard gasped out. "You've got to let me…"

Rob tightened his grasp so Howard had no more air to talk.

"I can't let you do it, How," he said, hoping Howard would black out soon. "You know I can't."

He could feel Howard's strength begin to fail, even as there was a clattering on the stairs. Before Rob could steel himself, Mark was standing in front of him, and he found himself staring straight into the barrel of Mark's gun.

"Let go of him, Rob."

* * *

Mark had felt there was something wrong since they landed in Amsterdam. Since before that, if he was honest. Howard had been quieter than usual, and seemed to flinch whenever Mark got too close to him. When he'd offered to scrub the mission, he hadn't been making an empty gesture; he honestly would have taken Howard back to Schiphol and hopped the next plane back to London, no questions asked.

He'd been so worried that Howard had thought he needed help, needed protection, but after two weeks of working with him, and after Jason's appeal, now he was sure it was Howard who needed the protection. When they got back to headquarters, Mark was going straight to M and insist Howard not be let back in the field. Ever.

But for now, they had to get through this assignment, stuck in this godforsaken stretch of land and water that was beginning to feel more and more like a trap.

He kept scanning the canal and surrounding land while he waited for word that Howard was in place in the tower. It was several long minutes before he finally got it.

"In position," Howard said. Was it Mark's imagination, or did his voice sound hoarse? 

"London, we're in position," Mark said. "No sign of our contact so far."

"Stay alert and in touch, 009," said M. 

Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise. M didn't usually bother listening in on such a mundane operation. Maybe M was as worried about Howard as he was.

"Affirmative," Mark said as he stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold. There was nothing to do now but wait for this mysterious contact who might, or might not, have information about Rob.

He was staring down the canal, trying to judge where someone bent on secrecy might approach from, when he heard Howard's voice in his ear.

"I'm sorry, Mark."

Mark had just enough time to think _sorry for what?_ before he heard the sound of a gunshot and the ricochet of a bullet off the dock to his right.

"Howard, what the fuck is going on up there?" he yelled, even as he drew his weapon and ran for cover at the base of the mill. That shot had come from the tower, from Howard's position. And that meant someone must have ambushed Howard; that was the only explanation.

"Howard?" He tapped his earpiece, but there was no answer from Howard. "London, I'm under fire." There was no answer from M, either. The line was dead. Or blocked.

"Fucking hell."

He took a deep breath, and then, gun up, moved into the mill through the same door Howard had used. There was no one on the ground floor of the mill, neither friend nor foe, but he thought he could hear something above him, from where Howard was.

Mark sprinted up the stairs, fourteen flights and he ran them all full speed, the sounds of a fight growing louder the higher he got. When he finally burst onto the landing the sounds were coming from, there was Rob, with Howard in a headlock. Howard's face was red with his efforts to free himself, but Rob was giving him no quarter whatsoever. On the floor beside them were two sniper's rifles, a pistol, and scattered boxes of bullets.

A cold fury burned under his skin. It must have been Rob who shot at him, who tried to kill him again. And Howard had tried to stop him. The hatred he'd had for Rob these past months raged and boiled.

"Let go of him, Rob." Mark aimed his gun at Rob's head.

"I can't, Mark." Rob's voice sounded anguished.

"Do it, or I'll pull the trigger." He'd promised M he'd bring Rob in alive, but he'd break every promise he'd made to save Howard.

"Markie…" Rob broke off for a moment, before he said something impossible. "He was going to kill you, Markie." 

"He bloody well wasn't. _You_ were." Convinced Rob was lying to save his own life, Mark tightened his grip on the gun. "He's my backup. He's my _friend_."

"I saw him, Mark." Rob was talking fast now. "I saw him aim at you, saw him _shoot_ at you." Rob's voice was tense, with an edge of panic in it.

"He was protecting me from _you_ , Rob."

"Tell him, How," Rob was saying, even as he relaxed his hold on Howard's throat, easing it enough that Howard could speak. "Tell him what they've got on you," Rob said, his voice so quiet it was gentle.

Howard abruptly stopped struggling and shook his head.

"Go on, Howard," Rob urged, shaking the other man. "I've jammed all frequencies. No one will hear it except us."

There was a long pause, during which Howard looked like he was going to be sick. He looked up at Mark, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, his mouth trembling, and then he spoke.

"Jay," Howard said, with his gaze locked on Mark. "They used Jay. Said they'd kill him if I didn't-" He stopped with a sob and looked out the broken window. "If I didn't kill you, Mark."

Mark felt the arm holding his gun sink to his side, his absolute trust in Howard going up in flames like gunpowder touched by a lit match.

"It's not true," Mark said, fighting the feeling that his legs were about to buckle. "It can't be true."

"It is," Howard said

At his words, Rob let go of him, and the two of them rolled apart, both panting as if they'd just run a marathon.

"Fucking hell," Mark breathed out. There was a pain in his knees, and Mark realized that his legs _had_ buckled, that he was kneeling, doubled over, on the rough wooden floor. He felt like he couldn't move his body, but his mind was suddenly revving too fast, making too many connections. Howard had been blackmailed into killing him. Blackmailed by the same people who seemed to be controlling Rob. And if that was the case…

"What have they got on _you_ , Rob?" He didn't look at Rob, couldn't look at him, but kept his focus on the gravel in front of him.

For several long seconds there was no reply, only the sounds of breathing from the men on either side of him. But then Rob spoke one word.

"You."

"No," Mark whispered.

"They told me they'd kill you if I didn't do what they asked." Rob's words were coming in a rush, now. "It's why I've done everything, Markie. For you."

"But you shot me," Mark said, struggling to understand what he was hearing.

"To keep you from raising the alarm. To keep you from stopping me stealing for them. To keep you alive."

"Fucking hell," Howard said. "What are we going to do?"

Mark looked up, took a deep breath, held it for a moment and released it. In that brief second, panic receded and the gears of his mind slipped back into place. 

He took a firm hold on his gun, then stood. He held out his free hand to Howard and pulled him to his feet. All the colour had drained from Howard's face, but his expression had gone from distraught to determined.

Then Mark moved over to Rob. Rob was looking up at him as if he expected a bullet in the head. Mark had spent months, nearly a year, hating Rob, and would have readily gunned him down for most of that time. But now…now that he knew why Rob had betrayed his country, had shot him, now he wanted nothing more than to save him.

He held out his hand to Rob. Rob looked up at him, his mouth trembling, his body shaking, then reached out. Mark pulled him up and towards him, and before he'd formed the conscious thought to do so, he'd drawn Rob into a hug. Rob hesitated for a moment, then wrapped his arms around Mark. 

It had been so long since thoughts of Rob caused him anything but pain and fury, but the feel of his arms, the hammering of his heart in his chest slashed through the hate that had cut into Mark's own heart. Mark turned his head enough and sighed when his mouth met Rob's, their kiss brief and hot and intense.

He pulled back reluctantly, to find Rob staring at him, open-mouthed. He looked over at Howard. Howard's colour was back, and while his eyes were still swimming with tears, his expression was somewhere between a smirk and a smile.

"Well," Mark said, impatient to get started. "Are we going to take the bastards down or not? Because I've got an idea."

* * *

When the feed from Amsterdam went dead, there was a moment of total silence in MI6's London Communication room.

"Was that a shot?" Josie finally asked.

"It was a shot." M was entirely sure what gunfire sounded like. "The real question is who was shooting? Can you get them back?"

"There's nothing to get back. It's being blocked." Josie frantically worked at the console. M knew if anyone could restore the connection with Owen, it was Josie. She was the best tech in communications, the one all the Double Os requested. 

"Keep trying," M ordered, pacing the room. He wanted to do something, order in a strike team or fly to Amsterdam himself. But he'd done this job long enough that he knew sometimes all you could do was wait. His people were good at their jobs. Owen was fantastic at his and he had Donald to watch over him. Things would work out, as long as he gave them sufficient time. Of course, knowing this did not make waiting any easier.

It was exactly 9 minutes and 43 seconds later that Josie heard something. M knew, because he'd set the stopwatch on his mobile as soon as they'd lost the signal from Amsterdam.

"I think I've got them, sir," she said, and dialled up the volume of the transmissions.

At first there was nothing but a crackle, but then M heard a voice.

"—hear me, London? This is 009."

"We read you, 009," Josie said, her voice as calm as it always was.

"What's going on, Owen?" M broke in.

"He shot at me." Owen sounded out of breath. And scared. And that scared M.

"Who shot at you?" M demanded.

"Sergeant Donald did. Howard did."

"What?" That made no sense. He knew how close Donald was to Owen. He and Q had hovered over Owen after he'd been shot like a pair of brood hens. They both still kept an eye on him.

"Christ, he's coming back." 

He could hear Owen's laboured breathing over the speakers, could hear the sound of his running footsteps. Then the footsteps stopped.

"Shit. Dead end." Owen's voice was panicked. And no wonder. He'd already been shot by one friend.

"Get out of there, Owen." M clenched his fist so tightly he could feel his nails bite into his palm. 

"I'll have to double back." There was the crunch of gravel, and then nothing. "Howard! Don't—"

Owen's voice was drowned out by the sound of three shots. There was a splash, and then the line went dead once more.

"Josie?" M said, masking his concern with a gruff tone. "Can you hear anything?"

"No, sir. The signal's gone again." Josie looked gutted, her face drained of all colour, but she kept at her post.

"What agents do we have in Amsterdam?"

"We have is a safe house in the city," Josie said. Her voice was calm, though M could see her hands shaking on her controls. "But it'll take the minders there at least thirty minutes to get to 009's location. And they're not officially considered operational agents."

"I don't care if you send a tea lady on a bike, I just want eyes on the scene."

"Yes, sir."

While Josie contacted the safe house and got the minders on their way, M pulled out his phone and called Moneypenny back into the office. He was going to need her.

There was more pacing, more waiting until the Amsterdam minders finally arrived on the scene and reported back.

"This is Sinclair, sir." The boy sounded hopelessly young. "There's no one here."

"Is there a body?" M asked. If there was no body, maybe Mark wasn't dead.

"No, sir. But there is a rifle."

"One of ours?"

"No, sir. A Heckler & Koch." There was a pause, and then another voice shouted "Over here."

There were footsteps, and then Sinclair killed the last of M's hope.

"There's blood. Beside the canal. Rather a lot of it, I think."

"Damn," M said under his breath as he paced the room. "Secure the scene, Sinclair. I'll send out an operational team. Wait for them."

With Owen likely dead and Donald a traitor, he was in the shit, now. Losing his job was the least of M's concerns. Because if Donald could be turned, anyone could be. He closed his eyes and wondered if there were any other moles in 6. Or rather, how many moles there were.

"I'll be in my office," M told Josie, and then strode out of the room. 

The Minister would need to be notified, and the Dutch. He'd have to make sure his house was clean. Before any of that, he had to call Q. And that was the phone call he was looking forward to least of all.

It was going to be a long night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark has a plan; Rob and Howard save the world.

I sat on the floor, my back against the sofa, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, wondering if I was ever going to stop feeling like this, like I was a brittle shell with nothing inside. I'd stopped crying hours ago, but this aching, miserable emptiness was almost worse.

Christ.

I wasn't sure what to think, what to believe, what to feel.

Mark was dead, and How had killed him. Those were the bare facts M had presented to me, though he'd also admitted there was no body and no eye witness. But M and Josie had heard what had happened.

Had heard what, but not why. Why the _fuck_ would How have killed Mark? And how could Mark be dead? Markie, who was simultaneously too sweet and too tough to be killed.

I felt my eyes stinging, noticed the dull ache in my head, and forced myself to stand up. I wandered into the loo, hoping I had a few stray paracetamol left in the medicine cabinet, trying my best to avoid catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes were red and swollen, my face was blotchy, and the expression on my face was one of absolute, unending grief. I quickly found the right bottle in the medicine cabinet, swallowed down a couple of white tablets with a swig of water straight from the tap, and hurried out of the room. I didn't want to stare at the horror I'd become a moment longer than necessary.

I wandered through the flat aimlessly, not wanting to be still anymore, but not wanting to venture into the outside world with its hard edges. I stood at the bedroom window and looked out, noticing that dawn was bleeding in from the horizon, a steel grey light that brought no comfort. I dropped onto the bed and wondered what the hell I was supposed to do with myself, now that my world had ended.

It was while I was sitting there that I heard it: a light knock on his door. I ignored it. There was no one I wanted to see.

Thirty seconds later, there was another knock, but this one wasn't light. It was loud and thunderous and refused to be ignored. 

"Fuck off, M!" I yelled. Because who else would be knocking on my door when the rest of the city was still sleeping? I didn't want to see M. I didn't want to see anyone.

I expected another knock, even as I hoped M would give up and leave me alone. What I didn't expect was a bang at the door, then another, and then finally a splintering crash as my MI6-approved deadbolt lock and oak door frame gave way, and a thud as my door rebounded off the wall.

Deep inside some part of my brain, I knew I should be panicked. After all, people didn't usually break into the flat of an MI6 employee because they fancied a cup of tea. But instead I was angry. How _dare_ someone knock down my door. How _dare_ they interrupt my grief.

I headed down the hall, barely noticing the cold of the wooden floor on my bare feet.

"Get out!" I shouted as I rounded the corner into the entryway. "Just get-" And then I froze, unable to process what, or who, I was seeing.

"C'mon, Jay," said Mark, a vision in black leather, black denim, and door-kicking pit boots, with a bandage wrapped around one hand. "You've got to get dressed. We've got to get out of here."

"But… you're dead." My brain sputtered, trying to reconcile what I was seeing with what I'd been told. "M said-"

"We had to make M think I was dead. At least for a bit." Mark was taking all of this far more calmly than I could conceive of. "There were people listening. They had to think it was real. But they might be on to us by now, so you're in danger, and I promised How I'd keep you safe while he and Rob go off and save the world. Or a little piece of it, anyway. So you need to get dressed now."

"Howard's alive?" I had been so sure that a Howard who'd killed Mark wouldn't last long. "And he's with Rob?"

"Yes, and yes. Now, would you please go get some socks on? And a jumper." Mark chivvied me down the hall towards my bedroom, picking up my trainers and top coat as he passed them. "You really need to learn how to sew on buttons," Mark said disapprovingly as he looked at the frayed threads marking the spot where two buttons had fallen off my coat.

"Oh, Markie," I said, and then hugged my friend, trapping his arms at his side. "You really are alive." Only Mark would worry about buttons in a life-and-death situation.

"Of course I am," Mark said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to rise from the dead. "Now, get _dressed_!" Mark pushed me away and I landed on the bed. Mark tossed me the top coat and trainers, and then disappeared down the hall.

In a daze, I put on his socks, and pulled my favourite jumper over the t-shirt I was wearing. I was just contemplating whether one could become a fugitive in trackie bottoms or whether I should change into jeans when Mark came rushing back into the room. 

"They're coming," Mark said, and the black look on his face told me he didn't mean Howard and Rob. "Do you have a weapon?"

"No!" I jettisoned the idea of jeans and quickly laced up my trainers. "I'm the Quartermaster. I make weapons; I don't use them." I threw on my coat and followed Mark to the door.

"That's too bad." Mark pulled his own weapon from his holster, the Walther I had given him when he first joined the Double Os. He guided me in front of him. "Go down the hall and up the stairs."

"The stairs lead to the roof!"

"That's where we're headed." Mark sounded as calm as if he'd suggested a walk in Soho Square. "Go." He pushed me ahead of him and then followed at a run.

I had begun to think that Mark was being overly dramatic, that there couldn't possibly be anyone after me, Quartermaster or no, when I heard the lift ding on my floor and heard a shout behind me. I didn't look back at our pursuers, just ran harder, through the door and up the stairs. Mark jammed the handle of a broom he found in the stairwell into the door's pushbar before following him.

"Don't think, don't talk," Mark said. "Just do what I say."

I didn't like the sound of that at all.

We ran up the stairs, our pursuers banging on the door below us until a loud crash told us they'd broken through. I burst onto the roof with Mark, and that's when I thought that Mark had made a fatal mistake. There was nowhere to go from up here. 

"We're trapped," I said, trying not to give in to the panic that was fizzing through my body into my brain. Five minutes ago, I hadn't known how I was going to go on living. Now I was afraid of dying.

"Don't think. Don't talk," Mark repeated. "Just do this." And before I could protest, Mark was running towards the edge of the roof, and jumping, somehow crossing over the gap to the next building.

Before I could think about it, I followed him, soaring over a yawning gap with a eight-story fall beneath it, and landing with a rolling thud on the next roof. Mark caught my arm as he wobbled on the edge, and then shot me a grin that, considering what we were doing, was nothing short of maniacal. 

I stood there for a moment, considering what I'd done, but then the sound of a bullet whizzing past me cut into my thoughts.

"What do we do now?" I asked Mark as we both ducked more bullets from our attackers.

"We do it again." He gave me another evil grin.

I thought for a moment he must be kidding, but then Mark was off running again, and leaping over to the next building. 

"Shit," I said. I tried to follow Mark's orders not to think (everyone always did tell me I thought too much) and ran and leapt again.

Three more times we jumped to another building, leaving our pursuers, who weren't quite as crazy as Mark, further and further behind. Finally, much to my relief, we scrambled down an outside stairwell, found our way to the street and jumped into a car Mark produced the keys for. Mark pulled away from the kerb before I even had the door closed, and headed north. 

I kept my breath held and my eyes on the back window until the houses and shops and blocks of flats of London began to bleed into the greener spaces of the Home Counties. Only when I was certain there was absolutely no one following us did I allow myself to relax in his seat. 

"Flippin' heck, Markie," I finally said, looking over at my friend. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but I never want to do anything like that again."

"I don't know, Jay. You were looking like you might take to field work." Mark grinned as he shifted gears and took us around the edges of Luton.

"I like sitting at my lab bench, not flinging myself off buildings."

"No sense of adventure, you."

"You have enough sense of adventure for both of us." I glanced down at the bandage on Mark's hand and gestured at it with my chin. "What happened there? Fling yourself off another building?"

"Nah. We needed a bit of blood for some amateur theatre. I was volunteered."

Mad. My friends were all mad.

I looked away and out the window as we passed through market towns and green fields. I had so many questions, I wasn't even sure where to start. Except there was one thing I desperately needed to know.

"Is Howard okay? Really okay?"

Mark's smile faded, and he took his eyes off the road long enough to look me straight in the eye.

"Howard's fine. And I've told Rob he needs looking after. Out of How's earshot, of course."

"Rob?" I wasn't even sure how I felt about the apparent return of their flock's black sheep.

"I know it sounds mad, but Rob is back on our side. In some ways, he was never off it." And then Mark recounted a tale of blackmail and betrayal and hard choices made. 

I felt sick, finding out what Rob and Howard had both been forced to do. I wished I'd paid more attention to what was going on around me, wished I'd been able to help them both. I'd make sure I never had regrets like that again.

"You said they're off saving the world?" I said, after Mark had finished telling me how Rob and Howard had thrown a great chunk of concrete into the canal in Amsterdam to make the splash M would think was Mark flailing into the water.

"Yeah." Mark's expression hardened. "Rob's got a bit more information on the bastards that were controlling him than they reckoned on. He and Howard are off to cause a bit of mayhem and collect a bit of evidence."

"How much mayhem? And how much evidence?" No matter how much things had changed in the last half hour, I still didn't like to think of Howard out in the field. He was still broken.

"Just enough of the first and more than enough of the second, if all goes well."

"If all goes well…" I trailed off, and neither of us mentioned just how much could go wrong. Especially on a completely unauthorized and insanely dangerous op like Howard and Rob were stepping into.

"Can I ask," I said, changing the subject before I could work himself into a really good brood, "where you're whisking me off to?"

"Droylsden."

"Droylsden?" Of all the places I might have guessed, Droylsden would have come slightly after Siberia.

"Howard's been in touch with an old mate of his. Joff's set up a bolthole for us on short notice. The place of a friend of a friend who's off in Canada."

"Do we need a bolt hole?"

"Yeah, we do. If Rob and How's mayhem doesn't succeed, we may all need to go ground. Even M. These bastards we're after aren't messing about."

"Are we after them or are they after us?"

"Bit of both, isn't it," Mark said, and that didn't comfort me in the least.

* * *

Here Rob was, sitting beside a former colleague who'd tried to kill him not twenty-four hours ago, in a stolen car, outside the headquarters of a powerful international criminal organization that was planning to take over the world, and yet he was happier than he'd been in ages.

He turned to Howard and grinned.

"I don't know what you're smiling for," Howard said with a frown. "We're both probably going to be dead before the hour's out."

"Them against the two of us?" Rob said. "They don't have a fucking chance."

"You're either optimistic or completely mental."

"Why can't I be both?"

"Jesus Fucking Christ." Howard looked panicked, and Rob suddenly remembered what Mark had told him. " _Be careful with How. He's more fragile than he looks, and Jason wants him back in one piece._ "

He reached over and squeezed Howard's shoulder.

"It'll be all right, How. You'll see. We'll get what we need, M will nail the bastards, and we'll all live happily ever after."

"Even you?"

Bloody hell, didn't Howard know just how to suck the fun out of everything?

"Except me." It wasn't like Rob hadn't thought about this far too often, what would happen if he ever defected back to MI6. "I've done too much. They'll do me for treason and have me locked up at Her Majesty's pleasure until the next ice age."

"I won't let them do that, Rob. I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I fucking well do." Howard grabbed his wrist. "You saved us all back in Amsterdam. I owe you everything." He gripped Rob's wrist so tightly that Rob could feel the bones in his wrist grind together. "We finish here and I'll make sure you get clear."

"You daft sod," Rob said as he put a hand over Howard's and squeezed.

"Besides, Mark would 'ave me if I didn't watch out for you," Howard said with a laugh with just a bit of an edge but was trying for light.

"You don't want to cross Markie," Rob said with a smile.

"You really don't. He's a hard one. Harder than the rest of us. Maybe even harder than M." 

Two years ago, that would have been a joke, but it wasn't now. And Rob knew he was the reason why.

"I know. And I'm sorry for that."

Howard didn't say anything to that, didn't give some old bollocks that it wasn't his fault when they both knew it absolutely was Rob's fault that Mark was now a deadly Double O agent.

They settled back in to wait for their quarry, with just a little bit of awkwardness between them. Fortunately, it didn't take long before a dark Bentley pulled up in front of the building and a familiar figure got out of it.

"There he is, How," Rob said. "Head of the RWBs."

"RWBs?" Howard looked confused.

"Sorry. It's what I've been calling this lot. Real life villains don't seem to give themselves good names like in the movies."

"No Spectre?" Howard asked with a smile.

"No Hydra either."

"But why RWB?"

"Rich White Bastards. Because they are, on all three counts."

"Well, then," Howard said, getting himself ready to move, "let's go get the bastards."

* * *

There was no way around it; it had been a bleeding awful couple of days.   
Owen was dead by Donald's hand. Q's flat had been broken into and Q was missing. And to top it all off, rumours were flying that Williams had been seen not just in England but in London.

The world had tipped upside down while M hadn't been looking, and now nothing made sense.

He was just working up the strength to finally deliver the bad news to Owen's family (he'd been avoiding that terrible duty by telling himself that without a body there was always a chance Owen was alive) when he got a phone call that seemed to promise more bad news.

"It's James, sir. In Security."

"Yes, James. How can I help you?" Gary could not help but remember that it was another phone call from James that had brought the news that Williams had shot Owen. He wondered what horror James had for him this time.

"Well, sir, I'm working the parking garage today, and there's something here I think you should see."

"Can't it wait?"

"No, sir. I don't believe it can. You need to see this yourself."

M hung up and sighed. He trusted James, trusted him to know when something needed to be dealt with immediately. And if James' mysterious "something" kept him from delivering bad news to Owen's family for a few minutes, he was willing to take a look.

He descended to the parking level in the lift, where he found James and a circle of armed guards. As James moved forward to meet him, M could see the guards all had their weapons trained on a lone man, his back to M, his arms in the air. Behind them all was a black Bentley, its bumper crumpled and its windscreen cracked like a spider's web.

"I'm glad you're here, sir," James said. "He's said he'll only talk to you."

M opened his mouth to ask who, but then the man turned, and he could see the face of the man at the centre of all this activity.

Sergeant Donald.

M felt a wave of anger flash through him. What the hell was Donald playing at? He impatiently waved himself a passage through the guards and came face-to-face with his former weapons master.

"Sergeant Donald, it takes a special sort of person to gun down a colleague and then turn up for work."

"I didn't gun down Mark." Donald looked distraught, but M didn't let that blunt his anger.

"Then what the hell did I hear in Amsterdam?"

"It was an act, sir. We needed you, we needed everyone, to believe it for a while."

"And why would you need anyone to believe Agent Owen was dead?"

"Because people were listening."

"What people?"

"People who wanted him dead and wanted me to kill him," Donald said, and pointed to the Bentley behind him. "You'll want to look in the boot of that car."

In the quiet, M thought he could hear dull thuds coming from the car at irregular intervals.

"Open the boot," M ordered.

James moved to obey, and M followed him, leaving Donald surrounded.

James opened the car and popped open the boot. Inside was well-dressed, if dishevelled, man of late middle age, bound and gagged, and in the process of kicking the lid of the boot with a rather expensive bespoke shoe. Surrounding him were several boxes of papers and two laptops. 

He recognized the man at once: Baron Somerville of Horsham, billionaire industrialist and a prominent member of the House of Lords. Somerville looked up at him, his eyes blazing with anger.

M paused for a moment and looked over at Donald.

"Sergeant Donald, is there anything you want to tell me before I remove Lord Somerville's gag?"

"He's a traitor," Donald said, his voice shaking. But in spite of his obvious fear, he managed to look defiant. "He blackmailed Rob into working for him and his mates. He blackmailed me into killing Mark because Mark was getting too close to his organization. He's one of the men in charge of that conspiracy you've been looking into."

"Hmm," M said and looked down at Somerville. He'd had suspicions about this man for years, but there'd never been any evidence. "Can you prove it?"

"Yeah," Donald said. "Those papers and the laptops have the best bits. There'll be more at his headquarters. I can tell you where that is."

"Where is Agent Owen?"

"That I can't tell you. Not until I know you believe me. Not until I know he'll be safe."

"And Williams?"

"I've got no idea where he is." That was said a bit too quickly, almost as though it had been rehearsed.

"Hmm," M said again, and considered his next course of action carefully. Only then did he reach out and finally remove Somerville's gag.

"This is outrageous!" the Somerville shouted. "Untie me immediately! I'll have you all up on charges. Even you, Barlow!"

"I would choose your next words carefully, Lord Somerville. You have been accused of treason and conspiracy. You're hardly proceeding from a position of strength."

"You'd take the word of that squaddie over mine?" Somerville sneered in Donald's direction. "If you don't treat me as befits my position, Barlow, I'll burn you and your organization down to the ground. I'll make sure they bring hanging back just for you."

M took a deep breath. He would pay for what he was about to do, but he knew it was the right thing. It would also be immensely satisfying.

"You'll do me the courtesy of addressing me as M, Lord Somerville. And I will do no more than treat you as you deserve." He turned to James. "You may release Lord Somerville-" he saw the arrogant sod give a little smirk, "and then you will escort him to the interrogation department, where you will hold him until I arrive. He is to be allowed no phone calls, no contact with anyone." Somerville's smirk turned to indignation, and M had to school his own features to restrain himself from smiling. He turned to James.

"Have the papers and laptops delivered to my office, and make sure no one else gets hold of them."

"What about me?" Donald asked, looking more than a little nervous.

"You can put your arms down and come with me," M said. "And you lot can put away those weapons," he told the guards.

M strode through the halls with Donald trailing behind him, ignoring all the stares and whispers they generated. His head was buzzing with what he'd heard. He'd known the conspiracy Owen had been chasing was huge, but he hadn't realized how rooted it was in British soil. If Somerville was involved, there would be others, equally connected and equally dangerous. He would need to move quickly. And the first step in that would be to find out everything he could, as quickly as possible.

"No phone calls," he told Moneypenny as they passed her and swept into his office. 

To her credit, she was the only person they'd seen in the building who hadn't gaped at Donald like a landed fish. She just nodded at him calmly and asked "Tea, sir?"

"Yes, please. And biscuits," he said as he closed the door on her.

Now that they were in his inner sanctum, he turned to Donald. Donald looked pale and was shaking like a runner who'd given his all in a marathon and found he has no strength left.

"Sit down, man. Before you fall over."

He waved Donald into the leather chair reserved for honoured visitors, then sat in front of him on his desk.

"We're alone, and I can assure you my office is swept regularly for bugs. Now, I need you to tell me where Owen is."

"No." Donald stuck out his chin and shook his head. "I can't."

"Why not?" M wasn't used to his people saying no to him. Especially not Donald.

"They have people in this building, M. When they were blackmailing me, they sent me things that could only have come from inside these walls. You need to clean house. Until you do, none of us is safe. Not Owen, not Q, not me. Not even you."

"You know where Q is?" That was a relief at least.

"He's with Owen, but-"

"You can't tell me where they are. But they're safe?"

"Safe as houses." And if Donald was sure of that, it was good enough for M.

"What about Williams?"

"I told you, I don't know where Rob is."

"I'm not stupid, Donald."

Donald crossed his arms, a bit of colour and a bit of fight coming back into his face.

"Let's say I tell you. And you find Williams. What will happen to him?"

Donald knew as well as he did that Williams had committed treason many times over, starting with shooting Owen and stealing the contents of M's safe. Even if he co-operated, he would probably spend most of his life in prison. M didn't bother to say any of it. Not that he had to.

"I thought so," Donald said with a sigh. Then he sat up straighter. "They were blackmailing him, M. They threatened to kill Mark if Rob didn't work for them, like they threatened Q if I didn't kill Mark. Rob doesn't deserve any of what you lot would throw at him. He's as much a victim as anyone. I won't give him up."

 _Shit_. M scrubbed a hand over his face. It wasn't that he didn't think Donald had a point. But it was also true that Williams' defection had caused a lot of damage. People had been hurt, people had _died_ because of what Williams had done.

He was saved from having to make a decision by Moneypenny opening the door carrying a tea tray, complete with a package of Hob Nobs.

"Here's your tea. And there's a squad of burly young men carrying boxes waiting to come in." She raised an eyebrow at him in a way the suggested he was responsible for ruining the smooth functioning of her office.

"You can leave the tea here." He pointed at his desk. "And the burly young men can bring the boxes in." He looked over at Donald. "We're not to be disturbed for the rest of the day."

"Your appointments?" she asked.

"I don't care if they're with the Minister or Her Majesty herself. Cancel them all."

She started to leave.

"And Moneypenny." She turned back. "We're going to need more Hob Nobs."

"Chocolate or plain?"

"Definitely chocolate."

She left with a smile, after shooing in the burly young men, the security guards from the parking garage carrying the files Donald had arrived with.

When all the boxes of files and laptops had been brought in, and the guards had been shooed out again, M turned back to Donald, and this time he knew what he was going to say.

"You're going to tell me what you know, and help me go through this lot-" He held up his hand as Donald started to protest. "And in return, I'm not going to ask about Williams or Owen or Q."

"Not at all?" Donald looked sceptical.

"Well, I suppose I'm eventually going to need to know where my Quartermaster is. But not until we've sorted out everyone who needs sorting out."

"How long do you think you'll need me?"

"As long as it take, Sergeant. As long as it takes." He moved over to his desk and the tea tray sitting on it. "And until we're done, how do you take your tea?"

* * *

It was nearly dawn when the M60 spat Howard's car onto the streets of Droylsden. 

Four days he'd spent with M, going over the files he and Rob had liberated from Somerville's headquarters, and poring over the mountains of evidence that arrived with each new raid M authorized. Four days with little enough sleep for either of them, but when M had finally declared that he had all he needed from Howard and sent him home for a rest, Howard had immediately set out for the north. 

He didn't care that it was the middle of the night. He just knew how much he needed to see Jason. 

He found Joff's friend's house as the sun was breaking the horizon and the streets were filling up with more traffic. The house was a pleasant semi with a brick front yard and net curtains on the windows, almost exactly like every other house on the street, and very like the house Howard had grown up in.

He pulled his car into the back laneway, and walked up to the back door, his heart pounding in his chest now that he was so close to Jay.

He started to put the key Joff had sent to him in the lock, only to find the door wrenched open and the barrel of a Walther P99 stuck in his face.

"Howard!" Mark's voice was a surprised growl. "I thought you were one of…" He trailed off as he lowered the gun. "But you're not." He carefully put the safety on his weapon, put it on the counter beside him, then pulled Howard into the kitchen and wrapped him in a hug, a proper, eager Markie hug of the sort Howard hadn't experienced since things had gone off the rails between Mark and Rob. "It's good to see you."

"You, too, Mark." He withdrew himself from Mark carefully and studied him in the grey light of the kitchen. Mark looked tired, but less coiled than he had in a year. "You're up early." He nodded at the steaming teapot on the kitchen table and the mug beside it.

"Couldn't sleep," Mark said with a shrug. "Would you like a cup?"

"Nah. M's had me living on tea and Hob Nobs for the past four days."

"How is M?" Mark gave him a careful look, as if he wasn't quite sure he wanted to ask the question or have it answered.

"He's happy as Larry," Howard answered, completely truthfully. "Rob and I got him the evidence he needed. Now he's merrily arresting peers of the realm and pulling up the whole conspiracy up by its roots."

"Good," Mark said with an emphatic nod. "Those bastards deserve it after what they did to us."

"How's Jay?"

"Well. Mostly. He's sleeping now. I don't think he slept at all the first three days we were here. I mean, I didn't sleep much either; we were both waiting for the other shoe to drop. But when I did catch an hour or two, Jay would be awake when I went to sleep, and awake when I woke up again. The exhaustion finally caught up with him last night, though. I found him passed out on top of his bed when I got up around 3 to do a perimeter check. I threw a blanket over him and tucked him in."

Howard wanted nothing more than to see Jay, but he had a message to deliver first. 

Before he'd left London he'd sent a text to a mobile number only he and one other person knew: "it's done, they're safe." He'd received a reply in seconds, with a location and a time.

"Rob's in Stoke. He'll be at the bandstand in Burslem Park in an hour," Howard said. "He'll wait for you."

"He shouldn't." Mark frowned. "He should get out of the country, go somewhere no one can find him. Not our side, and not theirs."

"He won't. Not without at least seeing you."

"I know." Mark sighed.

"He loves you."

"I know."

"And you love him."

"As much as you love that handsome man upstairs." Mark gave him a significant look.

"Yeah, well…" There was nothing Howard could say to that. It was absolutely true, after all. 

"Why don't you go up and see him. I'll get my gear together."

Howard didn't have to be told twice. He took the stairs two at a time, stopping to lean against the threshold of the first bedroom at the top. It was a small room, big enough only for a bed and a wardrobe. On top of the bed, curled on his side and covered by a plaid blanket that did indeed look like it had been tucked around him, was Jason. 

Watching the easy rise and fall of Jason's chest as he slept on, Howard was struck by how few times he'd actually seen Jay sleep. He was a chronic insomniac, Jason was. Howard always fell asleep before him and woke up after him. He was never quite sure how long Jason slept, except for knowing that it was never long enough. 

He heard a rustling behind him, and turned to find Mark with his black leather jacket clutched in one hand and a rucksack over a shoulder.

"That didn't take you long."

"I don't have much. And I've kept it all ready to go at a moment's notice. We didn't know who might be coming after us."

"C'mere." Howard threw an arm over Mark and gave him a quick squeeze before turning back to Jay. "He looks knackered. I hate to wake him up."

"Then don't." Mark began shrugging into his leather jacket.

"You don't want to say goodbye?"

"I hate goodbyes." Mark looked at Jason, his eyes nearly as fond as Howard's own. "And we've said everything we needed to."

"If you're sure…"

"I am." Mark pulled the rucksack back onto one shoulder. "You look after him, Howard. And let him look after you."

"Take care of yourself, Markie. And Rob." He gave Mark one last hug, and was struck by how small his friend suddenly seemed. It was as if Mark had shed the layers of toughness he'd built up in the last year, as if no longer needing to hate Rob had turned him back into the sweet-tempered young man he'd been when Howard had first met him.

"You're a good friend, How," Mark said, and then he headed down the stairs and was gone, leaving Howard wondering if he'd ever see him again. 

Howard stood where he was for several long minutes, waiting until he could no longer hear the engine of Mark's car before he finally turned back to Jason.

Jason mumbled in his sleep and turned slightly into the pillow. 

Howard felt a swell of gratitude overwhelm him. Jason was alive. They both were. They all were. All his friends had survived this fucking awful business and he could ask for nothing more.

He toed off his trainers, threw off his jacket, and climbed under the blanket with Jason, careful not to wake him. He put a gentle arm over Jason and spooned around him, smiling as Jason nestled back into his warmth.

"I'm here, you beautiful bastard," he whispered into the back of Jason's neck. 

He closed his eyes and let the rhythm of his breathing match Jason's. 

"I'm not letting you go, Jay. Not ever again."

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake from a dream where he was back in Amsterdam, back in that bloody mill. Only this time his target was tall and skinny and dark-haired.

"Howard!" Jason's voice broke through the terror of the dream. "Wake up. It's not real. Whatever it is, it's not real."

He felt hands on his face and opened his eyes to find Jason looking at him, his eyes full of worry. He grabbed one of Jay's hands and held it as tightly as he could, held it until the dream faded and he was back in the world with the man he loved.

Jason must have been able to see in his face when he broke free of the horrible vision his mind had trapped him in, because his expression softened and he smiled, and Howard suddenly found that they weren't nearly close enough.

Without even realizing he'd moved, Howard was kissing Jason. He needed to touch Jason, to prove to himself that they'd both survived. He needed to taste Jason, to feel his breath on his neck, to hear his heart beating in his chest. It was messy and uncontrolled, with hands and mouths going everywhere, but that was okay. It was perfect. It ended with them both tangled in their clothes and the blanket and each other.

"Christ, I was worried about you," Howard said.

"You were the one out fighting the villains," Jason said as he stroked his hand across Howard's back.

"And you were the one the villains were going after if I mucked it up." He grabbed a handful of Jay's hair and kissed him once again, taking his time this time.

"You didn't muck it up," Jason said when they finally came up for air. "Though Mark nearly gave me a heart attack getting me out of London." He sat up abruptly. "Mark. We'll have given him an earful." Jason's cheeks actually went a little pink with embarrassment.

"No we won't." Howard pulled Jason back down and held him. "He's gone."

"Gone?"

"Rob's waiting for him. In Stoke. He said you two had already said goodbye."

"I suppose we had." He let one hand drift up and down Howard's shoulder. "How is Rob?"

"A mess." Howard couldn't lie. "But Mark will look after him."

"With Rob in jail?"

"I don't think Mark will let anyone put Rob in jail."

"So, they're going to run?"

"Yeah." No point in denying what he suspected.

"Good," Jason said, and rested his chin on Howard's shoulder. "I think we should run, too."

"What?" That was not how he'd expected this conversation to go. Not that he'd thought about what he'd say to Jay at all. He'd just wanted to see the handsome bastard again.

"Not out of the country or anything. But I think we should get out of the spy business while we still can. Both of us. Together."

"And do what?"

"We're men of many talents." Jason grinned at him.

"I don't think most of my talents will make me any money." Howard wiggled against Jason and grinned back.

"You'd be surprised." Jason ran his fingers through Howard's hair, and Howard had to stop himself from keening in pleasure. As Howard watched, Jason's expression went serious again. "I don't want you in danger again, How."

"Life's full of danger."

"I don't want anyone shooting at you. Or me, for that matter."

"I don't want that either."

"We're agreed then."

"Yeah." It wouldn't solve all his problems, getting out of MI6. He'd still have the nightmares, still have to work to silence the worried voices in his head. But he could already feel some of the weight lifting from his shoulders at the mere thought of telling M they were quitting. "We get out now. Together."

"Always together," Jason said, and that was one thing they would always absolutely agree on.

* * *

Rob would be at Burslem Park in an hour, Howard had said. Getting from Droylsden to Stoke in an hour should have been a doddle, but today it seemed that every car in the U.K. was between Mark and Stoke. He got snarled in traffic in Stockport, and again in Knutsford—and really, who expected a traffic jam in fucking Knutsford?—before the road finally cleared on the final approach to the park.

By the time he entered the park at a run, it had been nearly two hours since he'd left Howard and Jay. He was terrified Rob wouldn't be there, and just as terrified that he would be.

He'd been here once before, back when he and Rob had first got together. Rob had brought him to Stoke to introduce him to his mum, and show him the stadium of his beloved Port Vale F.C. They'd wandered from the stadium to the park, and dusk had caught them snogging in the bandstand like teenagers. Mark hoped Rob remembered that day as fondly as he did.

He ran through the park, finally coming in sight of the bandstand. There was someone there, a tall, dark-haired man facing away from him. As Mark watched, the man flicked the end of a fag away from him, and then, as if he knew he was being watched, he froze in place.

Mark froze as well. He knew that silhouette, knew everything about that man. Or at least, he'd thought he'd known everything about him, once upon a time. Now he wasn't so sure.

Rob turned to face him. Even from this distance, Mark could see the hesitation in Rob's movement, and that hesitation kept Mark locked in place. But then Rob's body relaxed and Mark saw a smile form on his face, and all Mark's doubts and worries evaporated. He was once again the boy who'd kissed the love of his life on this bandstand with no idea of the trials ahead of him.

He took off for the bandstand, running as if he were chasing down an opposition striker on a football pitch. He didn't slow down when he reached the bandstand. He took its steps in one leap, and collided with Rob, knocking him to the ground and knocking the wind out of them both.

"You're here," he said when he got his breath back. "You're fucking here."

"'Course I—" was all Rob got out before Mark kissed him, silencing his words and stealing his breath. Mark felt Rob's muscles stiffen under him, and he wondered if he'd got it wrong, if Rob had only wanted to say goodbye. But then Rob's arms wrapped around him and Rob rolled on top of him and it was Rob taking _his_ breath away.

"I missed you so much, Markie," Rob said in the spaces in between kisses. "I never stopped missing you." He kissed Mark again, and Mark concentrated on the heat of Rob's mouth against his tongue, the scratch of Rob's stubble under his fingertips, the comfortable feel of his weight on Mark's hips.

"I missed you, too." Mark held Rob tightly, crushing Rob to him as hard as he could.

They couldn't stay like that forever, though, however much Mark might want to. Rob finally rolled off him and pulled Mark to his feet. Rob looked around the park as he slung an arm around Mark's shoulders.

"I'm going to miss this place, and all." His expression went serious. "I nearly went over to my mum's, but I reckoned someone would be watching her house. Their side or your side or both."

That was when it hit Mark fully, what it would mean to run away with Rob, to look after him. He'd be a fugitive. He'd never see Oldham again. He couldn't say goodbye to his parents, or his sister, or his brother. He'd spend the rest of his life on foreign soil.

"What is it, Markie?" Rob looked at him with concern.

"We won't be able to come back here. Ever."

Rob must have seen Mark's misgiving in his face, because he looked stricken.

"You don't have to come with me."

"Yeah, I do." Mark put his arm around Rob's waist and held him close. "You mean more to me than anyone, Rob. More than anything." He smiled. "You mean more to me than being able to get proper beans with breakfast."

"Christ, you really do love me." Rob laughed.

"I do, Rob." Mark was serious now. If they were going to make this work, if they were going to avoid all the problems this time, they were going to have to talk about everything. Good or bad, difficult or easy, they couldn't ignore things. They were going to be a unit of two with the world against them. "It's going to take more than a bullet to get rid of me this time," he said, making himself note Rob's flinch. "You've got me 'til the end."

"Markie…" Rob's voice caught in his throat, and he held Mark nearer and buried his face in Mark's neck.

"C'mon, Rob. We should get out of here." He held Rob away from him, pointedly not mentioning the wetness of Rob's face. "Now, do you have some way off this island that isn't going to get us caught or shot?"

Rob laughed, then looked surprised at himself

"Yeah, I might know a few dodgy characters who can get us out of Britain. Where do you want to go?"

"Some place warm and sunny." The thought of laying on a beach with Rob at his side was a good one.

"Did you know Qatar doesn't have an extradition treaty with Britain?"

"I don't know if I fancy Qatar."

"Take it from me, it's better than Uzbekistan."

"Uzbekistan?"

"No extradition treaty, but also no night life."

"Fucking hell, Rob. We're fugitives, not vacationers going to Ibiza for a two week break in the sun."

"Why can't we be both?" And there was the Rob Mark had fallen in love with: playful and cheeky and always looking for fun.

"Yeah, all right, then. Find me a hideaway with sun _and_ a night life."

Rob laughed and picked Mark up for a moment and then gave him another kiss.

"This is going to be fun," Rob said, a brilliant smile on his face.

They were about to give up all they knew, everyone they knew. They'd be wanted fugitives for the rest of their lives. But he'd have Rob at his side.

"Yeah," Mark said. "It really is."


	7. Epilogue

I never saw Mark and Rob again. They got out of the country somehow, even with all the resources of MI6 after them. (I wasn't surprised. They'd both been top Double O agents, after all.) They hadn't been gone a month when I started getting anonymous postcards from all sorts of places with no extradition treaty with Britain. Qatar. ("Enjoying our beach vacation. Must remember the sun cream next time.") South Korea. ("I have one piece of advice for you: never eat octopus sushi. The bastard was still alive.") Even Uzbekistan. ("There is no nightlife here. Send lager.") The postcards all sounded like they'd been written by Rob. Except maybe the one from Bhutan. ("Learning meditation from a Buddhist monk. Very helpful for travelling with our friend.")

I looked forward to those postcards. Every one I got meant that Mark and Rob were still out there, still evading capture or assassination. And every time I got another gaudy postcard with rude camels or pornographic monkeys on it, I made sure to pop by Oldham and Stoke to let their families know they were still alive. Those visits were never easy. Mark's mum would make me tea and be pathetically grateful for what little I could tell her about her son. Rob's mum just looked shell-shocked every single time. No matter what I told her, it couldn't erase the fact that her country considered her son a traitor.

M may not have been a fugitive, but I saw him less often than I got postcards from Mark and Rob. Dealing with the treason of a number of peers of the realm kept him busy, though he did manage the occasional visit, usually with Moneypenny and a discreet security guard in tow.

"Have you heard from Mark?" he'd always ask. 

"No, have you?" I'd never admit to hearing anything, knowing that M's duty to Queen and country outweighed his friendship to any of us. 

Moneypenny would steer conversation to neutral topics, for which I was grateful. Now that I was no longer Quartermaster, I got to see another, less formal side of Moneypenny. She turned out to have an actual first name—Dawn—and I found out that not only was she fiercely efficient, she was also funny and charming.  
Charming enough to get through M's considerable defences.

"She's lovely, isn't she?" M asked on one visit after she'd successfully deflected him from asking about Rob and gone off to make us all tea. 

"She is," I said. "Have you told her that?"

"No," M said, and then blushed. I knew then that his admiration for her had passed well beyond that of a boss for a highly skilled subordinate. 

After that, I saw more familiarity between them on each visit, until M finally took me aside one day and told me that he'd proposed to her, and she had graciously accepted his offer. They were both glowing with happiness. I hoped they'd be happy together.

Then there was Howard.

The two of us went to M the same day Mark and Rob escaped.

"We quit," I said, Howard standing beside me.

"You can't," M protested. "I need people I can trust right now." And to be fair I could see his point. He needed to clean up a major conspiracy in the ruling elite of the country and Christ knew how many moles in MI6 itself.

I turned to Howard, thinking we'd offer to stay on for a bit, but there was Howard, jaw clenched, eyes staring firmly off in a corner, looking like he'd shatter if he had to stay there one second more.

"We have to," I said, then reached over and gave Howard's hand a squeeze.

M looked from me to Howard and back, and I could see him doing the mental calculus in his head, weighing our usefulness to him against our happiness. I held my breath. After all, he was the head of MI6. If he'd decided to block our resignations, there wasn't anything we could have done about it. But this one time, to his credit, he let friendship rule his decision.

"All right, then," he said. And that was it. We were both out of a job. Happily so.

It had taken both of us nearly dying to do it, but we finally decided to move in together. And with nothing holding us in London, we decided to move back up north.

We pooled our savings and found an old farmhouse with a stable on a bit of land an hour outside of Manchester. Both the house and stable needed hard graft to make them liveable, but neither of us was afraid of work. We made the house comfortable and turned the stable into a workshop. It was quiet and tranquil and perfect. For me, anyway.

I started doing consulting work. Computers, specials systems, even a few custom fabrication jobs. M sent me a few clients, and they recommended me to a few others, and before I knew it I was in demand. So in demand I didn't realize Howard was drifting.

It was stupid of me not to notice. I thought he just needed a rest, needed time.

The local gun club tried to hire him to run their range. A bunch of local toffs whose experience with guns was limited to slaughtering pheasants during hunting season, I imagine they were salivating at the thought of having a former SAS sergeant at their beck and call.

Howard, however, turned them down flat.

"I can't work with guns anymore," he told me after the head of the club had made a visit out to our house. His voice was strong, though his hands were shaking. "I won't."

He didn't need to say anymore. I nodded and held him until he stopped trembling. That's when I realized that he didn't need time or a rest. What he needed was a purpose.

Around that time, my Mercedes threw one of its frequent wobblies. That was the hazard of owning a classic. ("Classic is just another word for old," Howard would say.) That's when Howard revealed a hidden talent.

"Let me have a crack at it," he said, looking keener than he had about anything since we'd left London.

"What do you know about cars?"

"Did a youth training scheme on car repair after I left school, didn't I? I had a good job in a garage for a while, until I decided to pack it in for the army."

He set up in the half of the stable I wasn't using, and had the old girl running in half a day. But he didn't stop there. He tuned up the engine, got rid of a few dents in the body, gave her a new paint job and had her looking as good as the day she'd rolled off the assembly line.

Then he found an old Morgan rusting in a field on the other side of the village. He bought it for a few quid and a promise to help out on the farm during the summer, then spent months tracking down parts and restoring it. He sold it for a tidy profit.

The toffs who'd wanted him to work at the gun club started coming to him with their fancy cars after that. Before I knew it he was busier than I was. 

But best of all, he was happy. We both were. And by the time of M's wedding, we were happier still.

We nearly didn't go to the wedding. It was a formal affair, morning dress required, and that was enough to put Howard off. In the end, I was glad I talked him into it. He looked handsome in formal gear, and I was pleased to have him on my arm.

The ceremony itself was lovely. I'm not sure who looked more euphoric as they walked down the aisle, M or Moneypenny. M certainly looked proud enough to burst his buttons when they said their vows. It made me appreciate the man at my side even more, and I leaned into Howard when M kissed his bride.

On the gift table at the reception, along with the usual assortment of tastefully wrapped boxes and thick vellum envelopes was a large, extraordinarily ugly brass lamp in the shape of a dachshund. The bloody thing had a gift tag attached to its neck with a cheerful red bow. When he saw it, Howard elbowed me in the ribs, and we moved in for a closer look. I'm still not sure if Howard knew what we'd find.

The gift tag read "Hope you'll be as happy as we are. MO&RW."

I clutched Howard's arm when I read it. Howard laughed and grabbed me back. 

I don't know how Mark and Rob had done it, managed to have a large, ugly wedding present smuggled into the wedding reception of the head of MI6, but I was happy they had. It was proof positive the two of them weren't just surviving, but thriving. And it was just like Rob, saddling his former Guv with the ugliest gift he could manage.

"Wonder what they'll send to our wedding," Howard said, then looked startled, as if he hadn't quite thought through what he'd said.

"Is that a proposal, Sergeant Donald?" I ask, half joking, half not.

Howard paused a moment, then stood up straight, smoothed down his waistcoat, and held out his hand.

"Jason Orange, will you marry me?"

I didn't pause at all as I took his hand.

"Yes, I will. Will you marry me, Howard Donald?"

"'Course I will, you beautiful bastard."

We danced all night, me and Howard. I got just drunk enough to admit I'd breakdanced back in the day and did one sloppy shoulder spin. Howard got even drunker, and tried a back flip before I stopped him.

"You don't get to break your neck until you've danced at our wedding," I told him.

"Yes, mum," he said with a smile and then swept me once more around the dance floor.

It was a brilliant night all 'round.

I'd watched them grow up, the Manchester boys. Mark and Rob. Gary and Howard. They'd been through a lot. _We'd_ been through a lot. But we'd endured.

All of us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious, Rob and Mark's [ugly dachshund lamp](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/przed/987687/287773/287773_original.jpg) wedding present actually exists.


End file.
